There's No Such Thing As A Hero
by Sam M. Holmes
Summary: The Saints journey to London after breaking out of jail. Of course, duty calls and a new detective is on the chase. Sherlock Holmes. Rated T for Language and violence. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

Hey guys.

I'm going through a bit of a mental breakdown. Quantity is really getting in the way of quality and I'm having major difficulties. Not to mention a paper that has been literally kicking my ass for the past three weeks. I re-watched Boondock Saints (1&2), remembering how much I adored those movies. I figured… Sherlock worked well with it. Vigilantes and all… BRAIN BLAST!

Rated T for McManus language and violence.

I don't own Boondock Saints or Sherlock

Deartháir

Sherlock pulled a blanket over his head, groaning. He wasn't going to move. He didn't want to.

"Sherlock, come on!" John yanked the blanket from the bed, forcing Sherlock to lob a pillow in his general direction. John ducked; the pillow knocked into a framed picture of the London Bridge, disrupting it. The frame splintered as it hit the ground. John crossed his arms. "Get out of bed. Now."

"No."

"Sherlock…"

Footsteps gingerly raced up the stairs. "Sherlock, dear! It's Lestrade! Should I let him in?"

"NO!"

John shook his head in disbelief. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Give him some of that fine chamomile tea of yours."

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear."

"Whatever." John got another well aimed pillow thrown at his head. It bounced off. John glared at the hunched figure of the detective. Sherlock curled around the only pillow he had left; clinging like it was the most precious thing in the world. "Sherlock… please. Lestrade has a case and I have a bloody date! I am not going to babysit you!" Sherlock looked up with lazy eyes, hiding behind his messy hair, but didn't respond. He returned to his pillow. "What's wrong? I mean, seriously, I'm used to the bored thing, but I've never seen you so adamant on being stationary."

"Stationary? More stagnant. My mind rebels at stagnation, John, but every time I move to do something about it, I become fatigued. Uninterested." Sherlock waved his hand toward the door. "There's an awful draft, you know."

"Huh." John slammed the door, administering a yelp from the wood. John jumped back as Lestrade pulled his hand out from the door. Hissing in pain, he shot a nasty look towards Sherlock.

"I called you."

Sherlock snorted. "I prefer to text."

"I texted you!"

"Phone's dead."

The useless phone hit Lestrade in the chest, falling perfectly into his hands. The Inspector squeezed the phone, rolling his eyes. "Got a new case. Might be interesting."

"Don't want it."

John sighed. "Sherlock…"

Lestrade threw a case file at Sherlock, letting the papers cover his hands. Sherlock flinched at the blow, but simply buried his head deeper into the pillow. "Multiple homicides…. One room. One locked room. Break in via vent."

"Cinephiles…"

"Coins placed on each of the dead's eyes."

Sherlock looked up, brow furrowed. "Coins?"

"Yes. Know the MO?"

Sherlock sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. John sat down on the edge of the bed. Within a minute, Sherlock burst from his rapt contemplation. "I might… how many assailants?" He pressed the pads of his fingers together, resting them in the crook of his chin. Looking over his fingers, he patiently waited for Lestrade to fumble through the scattered papers.

"At least, four or five, I'm gonna bet. All this damage? Too much for less than four."

Sherlock nodded. "What if… what if I were to tell you that it's two?"

"I'd say you were mad."

Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder. "If you'd be so kind as to get my laptop for me…"

"Get off your arse and get it." John huffed.

"I thought you had a date…"

John hunched his shoulders slightly. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose. Sherlock chuckled quietly. John could be so emotional at times. And he was the one that compared Sherlock to a child. Would an adult anger this easily? Finally, John found Sherlock's laptop and placed it roughly down on Sherlock's feet. Everyone was silent as Sherlock flipped it open and began to type rapidly.

"There." Sherlock handed the laptop to Lestrade. "Recognize them?"

An article lit up the screen. _Boston "Saints" in Prison. _Lestrade scrolled down, curious. He cocked his head to the side, reading as fast as he could manage. He scrolled down to a picture of the said 'Saints'. Lestrade pursed his lips, but said nothing. Two similar looking men were donning orange jumpsuits, hands handcuffed together. Each looked down, not able to meet the eyes of the camera. One of the men betrayed a slight smirk on his face. Sure, he had heard of them. _Hoag High Security Prison…_

"Connor and Murphy McManus. The Saints of Boston." Sherlock introduced. "Quite extraordinary actually. They feel that killing mob bosses is fulfilling some sort of religious prophecy."

"Just because you don't have any beliefs, Sherlock…"

"Oh, I believe." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, snatching the computer away from Lestrade. "I believe in the imperfections of man." He flicked through a few more articles.

"But they're in prison! High security one at that!" insisted Lestrade. "And from Boston to here… They'd be found sooner or later."

"Not exactly." Sherlock sighed.

"With the right contacts," John explained, "one can get in and out of a country without raising any flags." He stole the computer from Sherlock, scrutinizing another picture of the Irish brothers outside a court house. Like all the other pictures, they had their heads bowed as if in prayer. "And probably escape prison."

"Fine," Lestrade sighed. "I'll check Interpol for the McManus brothers and their status." He began to walk away, but he stopped and turned back. "Get out of your bloody bed and put some decent clothes on." Sherlock glared at him, typing blindly on the keyboard. His slender fingers bent to press each key, clicking softly.

"So you think that the Boston Saints are back? In London?" John questioned.

"Thought you had a date."

"Lost interest."

"I'm positive." Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. His eyes were plastered to the screen, periodically typing. John stumbled down the stairs, faster than he meant to. Sherlock snorted from upstairs. "Don't kill yourself, John. I need you." John limped slightly to his armchair and collapsed.

"Good God, Sherlock… John, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson held out a nice tray, complete with three full tea mugs. "I heard someone thumping and I nearly dropped the tray!" She set down the tray in front of his, patting his back.

"Yeah, I'm fine." John grabbed his own laptop. He opened up his blog, hesitating slightly. The screen contrasted with the darker room, casting shadows over his face. Mrs. Hudson left him alone with the tea. John began to type. _The Saints…_

* * *

"Da!"

Murphy jerked upright, crazed look in his eyes. His head spun around, scoping his surroundings. The medical bay of Hoag was dimly lit so that its occupants could sleep. Monitors kept tabs on Romeo's heartbeat; he was resting peacefully in the neck brace. It had been a week or so since the battle. The brothers boasted many scars and bruises, but were almost healed. Romeo had woken up, throwing a few choice words about the smell. Murphy had to agree with him. Hospitals were bad, but prison hospitals were the lowest of the low. Now, he woke with sweat pouring down his back, running over his few bandages. He'd had many rude awakenings in his life, but one could never get used to the nightmares that plagued his dreams.

Over and over again, Murphy dreamed of the bloody battle. Bullets flew everywhere, shattering the glass casing of the Roman's garden. Da was holding up well, pulling out his guns one by one and emptying them. The leap of faith, jumping into the garden. Then everything hurt. He was shot. Connor was shot. Da was dying. Murphy screamed, reaching towards his family. In the dream, things were different.

Da went down first, blood dripping from his mouth. He choked out his last words, pulling Murphy down to his ear. _You failed me._ Murphy could feel the tears running down his face, but he ignored them. He heard another scream. Connor collapsed, gripping his leg. _MURPH!_ Murphy ran to him, holding his head in his shaking hands. Another shot rang out, hitting Connor in the chest. He convulsed, coughing out blood. _Fuck you…_ And Murphy was alone. The shots had stopped. Everyone was dead.

"Murph?"

Murphy's eyes locked with his twin's. Murphy buried his head in his hands. Connor crossed the short distance between their beds, nodding towards the guard. He nodded back. Connor wrapped an arm around Murphy's back. Murphy's shoulders were shaking, small whimpers coming out between his callused hands. They just sat there, brothers in arms. Connor rubbed slow circles around Murphy's back, relaxing his tensed muscles. Silence interrupted only slightly by the beeping of Romeo's heart.

"Fuck off, Connor. I'm fine…" Murphy finally said. He shrugged off Connor, sniffing.

"Right, like I'm goin' ta trust a sick fuck like you…" Connor laughed, but he released his brother. He moved back, stretching his shoulder back. Pain shot through his muscles, making him hiss. Murphy nodded slowly.

"Could really use a drink…" Murphy groaned.

"They can't keep us away from drinkin' on St. Patty's day, can they?" Connor teased, lightly punching Murphy in the arm. Had it been normal circumstances, Murphy would have punched back harder and the two would yell at each other. But neither felt up to it.

"No, they can't." The twins jumped, jerking around. The guard lay still on the floor. Murphy let out a surprised "Jesus Fucking Christ". Smecker grinned. "Lord's fucking name." The boys nearly tackled him with unsuppressed affection. "Easy, easy."

"Ain't this a pleasant surprise?" Bloom appeared behind him. She nearly cracked her heels as Murphy and Connor hugged her: softer than Smecker, but still decently hard. "Paul said that we were gonna break you out. It was faster than I expected. Y'all are still in the med bay." All the commotion woke up the last member of the room. Romeo groaned, opening his eyes.

"… Da fuck are you doin'?"

"Nothin', Rome," laughed Murphy. His tears dried, replaced with pure joy. "We're gettin' outta here." Romeo shot him a pained looked.

Bloom shook her head. "He won't be."

Connor's face shifted. "What d'ya mean?"

Smecker motioned to the monitor. "He's not fit to move, boys."

"Not fit, my ass…" Murphy hissed. He approached Romeo, getting ready to pull him out of bed. Romeo flinched.

"No, no, no, man. Please." Romeo tried to turn his head, failing. "I'm better of here, man. Really."

"Rome, we can't leave ya here!" Connor insisted. Smecker pushed him back.

"Multiple head wounds, gunshot to the leg… Connor, Murphy, he'd die before we got past the gate." Smecker dragged either Saint away from Romeo. Romeo just winced. "He can't even move his neck."

"I'm sorry, Rome." Murphy placed a knowing hand on his shoulder.

"We'll come back for you."

"Promise."

"Are… are you cryin'? Again?"

Romeo lifted one weak hand and flipped them off. "Fuckin' assholes." Connor and Murphy burst out laughing until Bloom silenced them with a finger pressed to her ruby lips. "Get outta here. Blow up some mother fuckers for me, alright?"

"Aye." The brothers smiled in unison.

"Come on, boys!" Bloom insisted. Connor and Murphy crossed themselves over Romeo, grabbing softly onto his hand. Romeo smiled, but urged them silently on. Smecker opened the door, pulling back the hammer of his own pistol. "We've got your things in the car. Now move!" She grabbed them by their wrists, yanking them forward.

Smecker checked the hallway. There were still guards around, but the prison was mostly quiet. There were still yells echoing down the halls. Bloom pushed the boys forward, hurrying down the halls with the clicks of her heels. Connor and Murphy realized that neither of them was actually wearing shoes. The floor was cold, like running on ice. Their feet slapped hard against the floor as they followed Smecker.

"One question. Cameras?"

"We have our ways." Bloom winked.

One guard noticed them. Smecker lifted the gun fluidly and the guard lay dead, gunshot stuck in the middle of his forehead. They ran faster. Without warning, Bloom pulled Murphy aside, using him as a brace as she tore off her heels.

"Hurry up, Eunice. We need ta get outta here!" Murphy pressed.

"I'm workin' on it…"

Smecker grabbed her heels, pushing her down the hall. "Come on, come on, come on!" He stopped as they rounded the corner into the main entrance. All the doors were wide open. The control center was blackened, lights smashed in. At last, Connor and Murphy breathed in the outside unlike the past week. Smecker ripped open the door, throwing in the heels. "GO!" After piling in, Smecker started the car and stepped on the gas.

Connor and Murphy crossed their arms, meeting each other's eyes. "Where to, Murph?" Bloom tossed the boys their tee shirts, which they pulled over their heads. Murphy cringed. Connor immediately helped him to get the shirt on, gingerly moving past his shoulder.

"We need ta get outta Boston."

"Could go home…"

"No. There's nothin' there for us, Conn."

"Aye. Any suggestions from t'e peanut gallery?"

Bloom leaned back in her seat. "Costa Rica?"

"Too humid," the Saints moaned.

"Ireland may not be the best, but how about London?" asked Smecker. The boys looked at each other and then at Smecker. Without warning, they burst out laughing. Connor's high-pitched laugh panged at Smecker's ears while Murphy's lower pitched laugh just made him angry. "What? Is there something fucking wrong with it?"

"Fuck yeah t'ere is!" Connor wiped fresh tears from his eyes. "We don't do cities."

"Or city folk." Murphy laughed.

"Dublin, sure. But t'ey speak yer language."

"Unlike London."

Smecker snorted. "We're going to the docks and you two are going to London. Change your names, cut you hair, you know. Shape up."

"How t'e fuck do we cut our hair even shorter?" Connor ran a hand through his thin hair.

"Very… very… carefully…" hissed Smecker.

* * *

Please R&R and DFTBA! Thanks guys!

SMH


	2. Chapter 2

And I'm back. I've been having major writer's block on practically all my stories but this one. Sorry.

I do not own Boondock Saints or Sherlock.

The London Times

Sherlock bent down, kneeling over the body. Instead of eyes, two glimmering pennies looked up at him. He pulled gloves on, eyes never leaving the corpse. He laid down next to it, staring at it from the side. This was similar to the first truly documented case of the Saints. Too similar. The room was decorated with blood and corpses. It had appeared that the Saints had jumped down from the vent, fired, hitting the henchmen where they sat on the sofa. In the middle of the room, where Sherlock lay, they had forced the boss onto his knees and shot him.

The boss was named Bernando Verganza. He was a Spanish drug lord with a rap sheet longer than that of several serial killers. Two bullet holes were centered on the back of his head. Sherlock gently rolled the head to the side, tracing the bullet holes with a fingertip. Angled as they were, they exited the boss's eyes near perfect. The pennies were muffled as they fell, but Sherlock paid no attention.

"Sherlock, you're disrupting a crime scene!" scolded Lestrade. He kneeled next to Sherlock, studying the bullet holes. Lestrade veered back, smell hitting his nose. Rotting flesh mixed with ammonia curled up and around in the air, contaminating the small space. "Jesus… did you find anything?"

"Other than the obvious, no."

Lestrade nodded. "Great."

"Get in contact with Interpol?"

Lestrade straightened to his feet, followed by Sherlock. "Even better."

"Boston PD. Who'd you talk to?"

"One Detective Shamus Fynes. Sounded Irish. Friend?"

"I'd imagine."

Sherlock flinched as a figure made its way under the tape and towards them. John's sweater was unusually disheveled. There were slight lipstick stains around his mouth, but they were fading fast. Sherlock bristled slightly as John got closer and the smell of perfume filled his nostrils. John waved a hello to them, standing directly next to Sherlock.

"How'd it go?"

John feigned boredom. "It was alright." But he was too bouncy. He had been successful.

Sherlock snorted, gaining confused looks from both his companions. "Fynes. Anything on the prison escape?" Lestrade's pallor whitened considerably.

"You were right. Don't know why I'm surprised."

John scrunched up his face in disgust. "How the hell did they manage that so quickly?"

"They escaped middle of the night a couple of days ago. All guards in the vicinity were deemed unconscious or shot dead. The security footage was tampered with, destroyed actually. No film remains in the prison at the moment. And unless they had pistols shoved up their arses, I highly doubt that they worked alone." Lestrade flipped out his cell phone, dialing quickly. "Anderson. I need you to call Detective Fynes and arrange a meeting. No, you're not my assistant. Now get to bloody work!" Lestrade sighed heavily. "We'll clean up here."

"Mrs. Hudson did promise us sandwiches when we got home, Sherlock." Sherlock didn't speak, only nodded and trudged to the end of the street. He hailed a cab and waited for John to join him. Lestrade nodded them away and began to order the officers to clear the body.

"So they're in London?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Can you catch them?"

Sherlock smiled. "Of course I can."

* * *

Murphy blew smoke towards his brother, watching it drift lazily into the air. Connor paced furiously back and forth, burn phone pressed tightly to his ear. He scowled, throwing up an air in exasperation. Time after time, he would receive the same message.

_You've reached Special Agent Smecker. I'm probably working right now, so leave your name, number, and a short message after the tone. Thank you. _

"Fuck!"

"Conn, don't worry about it!" Murphy insisted. "We ca' find our own damn way."

"Shuddup." Connor redialed. "'E's supposed ta call when 'e finds a flat…" Nothing. "Fuck." Connor resisted throwing the phone against the alley wall. It was dark enough in the alley that even without initial protection, they would be fine. After their escape, Smecker had taken the boys to get their hair redone. Much to Connor's amusement, Murphy had his dyed a dirty blonde. To get back at him, Murphy had switched his bottles of dye. Connor's light blonde hair was dyed into a ghastly ginger. Connor now ran his fingers through his messy ginger hair, breathing as slowly as he could manage.

"Yer panickin'."

"I ain't panickin'."

"De fuck you ain't!" Murphy snorted. He flicked the cigarette from his teeth, crushing it with the heel of his boot. Connor stuck the phone in the back pocket of his jeans and leapt on his brother, crushing him against the wall. The two wrestled, hurling insults back and forth. Connor yelped as Murphy jabbed him hard in the ribs. He responded, burying a fist into Murphy's stomach. Connor flinched as something vibrated. The phone. He pushed Murphy off of him, flipping it open.

"Yeah?"

_"Murphy? I gave the phone to Connor."_

"Shut de fuck up. Address?"

"_221 Baker Street. There are several people living in it already, but there are multiple flats. I've already provided you with three months rent. 221A is open for you. Want to meet up there?"_

"Several people?" Murphy butted in. Being at such a close proximity to the phone had its advantages. "'Ow the fuck do we manage t'at?" Connor punched his arm. "What? T's true."

"_I don't care what the fuck you do to hide your identity, but it's your job now. Not to mention, people won't search overly occupied apartments as willing. I'll meet you there in an hour. Don't be fucking late._" Connor cursed as he received the dial tone.

Murphy pulled out his pack of cigarettes, flipping the box open and closed. The brothers' eyes met, communicating in ways inconceivable to the normal person. Connor saw and felt Murphy's apprehension. If they were caught again, the jury wouldn't be so lenient with the punishment. They had received life back in Boston. Returning, they could each face the death sentence. With the apprehension, excitement boiled in either's stomach. This was a new life. It sure wasn't sheep herding in Ireland, but it was every bit as new and exciting as the first time the two stepped off the boat into America.

"We're fucked."

Connor nodded, snatching the cigarettes out of Murphy's hands. He put one between his lips. "We'll be… fine." Digging through his jacket for a lighter, Connor refused to meet his brother's eyes again. That's the problem with spending your entire life with someone. They know when you're dodging a question.

"Fuckin' right we will." Murphy stood, rolling his shoulders back. Connor still fumbled for a lighter. Murphy, taking a sick sort of pity on him, tossed the silver box at Connor. It bounced off of Connor's head.

"OW! 'Ey!"

"Suck it up, princess."

Connor lit the cigarette, taking a long drag. The nicotine, addictive as it was, was welcomed. "Let's get outta here." Connor pulled himself to his feet. The two stood in silence for a bit longer, but then walked out of the alley, pulling hoods over their heads.

* * *

Special Agent Paul Smecker walked up to the door of 221 Baker Street. Clad in more makeup than he thought humanly possible, Smecker looked nothing like himself. His own bushy brown hair had been dyed black and slicked back. When it was all said and done, he looked rather Italian. In order not to embarrass the boys, Bloom had grilled him into forgetting his drag in America. He wouldn't forgive her for that. He raised a fist, rapping on the hard wood.

"Hello?"

A little old woman opened to door, eyes lightening up. "Hello! Are you looking for anyone in particular?" Smecker put on his best New York accent, smiling with all he was worth.

"Actually I'm settin' up an apartment for my friends. I heard that 221A was available?"

"That it is! Come on in, my dear! I had no idea that it was you, Mr. Duffy! You sounded so different on the phone." The woman opened the door wider, bidding Smecker to step inside. "It's just down the hall!" The woman was so cheerful that Smecker would have been in the right mind to smack her. She unlocked the door and ushered him in. "Do tell me everything! What are your two friends like?"

"They're quiet. And they don't like bein' disturbed. Is that possible?" Smecker tried to act good natured and well meaning, but the woman faltered a bit before replying.

"It… it shouldn't be a problem." The woman looked apprehensively down the hall to the steps. Smecker followed her gaze. "But anyway, dear me, I forgot to introduce myself. Everyone calls me Mrs. Hudson."

"I can see why." Smecker smiled thankfully. He looked about the room. It was comfortable enough. There was a new couch pushed against the wall.

"Will they need two rooms?"

"They're brothers."

"Oh, I see! Well, there are two in the flat. I provided some mattresses for them, but I haven't found the right bed frames. Do you think they'll mind?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

A car door slammed outside, causing Smecker to jump out of his skin. Voices were heard and the door swung open. Smecker didn't recognize them, concluding that the boys were still on their way. Mrs. Hudson hurried out of the room, talking in a high pitched scolding voice. Eventually, Smecker was dragged back into the hall. He frowned, faced with two different men. The contrast was incredible. The taller one (the handsome one) looked at Smecker blankly, measuring him with his eyes. The shorter one who donned an ugly sweater held out a hand.

"John Watson," he smiled. Smecker took his hand.

"Troy Duffy."

"American?" John shook his hand gently, releasing almost too quickly. Smecker nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "You thinking of renting 221A?"

"It's for some friends of mine."

"That's nice."

Another car pulled up. There was a car door slam and then another. John grabbed Sherlock's arm, dragging him towards the stairs. "No reading the new neighbors."

"John, let me go."

"Sherlock."

Smecker waved them off. "It's alright. My friends are a bit… _antisocial_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and the two disappeared into their own flat. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, letting in the new occupants. Smecker grinned, moving past the old lady. Connor tugged absentmindedly at the gloves they were forced to wear.

"Boys! Mrs. Hudson, meet Ian and Sean Callaghan." Smecker introduced. After many wrestling matches, Connor had gained the role of Ian. Murphy shook Mrs. Hudson's hand, bringing his hood back from his face. Connor did the same, flinching slightly as Smecker stifled a laugh.

"It's a pleasure to meet you!" Mrs. Hudson grinned. "Such nice boys! Come on in."

The four crowded into the flat, boys whistling their approval. Next to their old apartment and Doc's basement, this wasn't too bad. And it had heating. Double bonus. Murphy crossed the room, sitting down on the couch. After feeling the cushions with one gloved hand, he nodded towards Connor to join him.

"Thanks." Connor smirked. "D'ya mind gettin' us some tea, Mrs. Hudson? Ya do have such a lovely shop."

Automatically, Mrs. Hudson quipped, "I'm not your housekeeper." But she disappeared. Smecker leaned on the doorframe, eyes still locked on Connor's hair.

"Shut de fuck up."

Both Murphy and Smecker burst into bouts of laughter.

* * *

Murphy screamed as the men forced Connor to his knees. Chains bit into his wrists, pulling forward and ripping skin. Blood poured from the wall, dripping into a puddle at his feet. Murphy kept screaming, pulling until the pain became unbearable. It was all in slow motion.

"CONNOR!" Murphy screamed as the Russian placed a gun to Connor's head. Connor bowed his head, refusing to meet his brother's gaze. "Please! NO!" The Russian's finger closed around the trigger.

It was the end.

Murphy couldn't look.

"I'm s… sorry, Conn…"

"_Du lässt mich__sterben_, Murphy. " _You let me die._

A gunshot sounded. Murphy jerked from the wall, tears streaming form his face. Connor's body slumped to the ground. His face was turned away from Murphy, but Murphy knew he was dead. The Russians left the room.

"NO!" Murphy slumped on the wall. "Kill me… k… kill me too…"

_Murphy!_

Murphy woke up screaming. He felt warm arms wrap around him, forcing him to calm. Sweat soaked his back. He buried his head in his comforter's chest, breathing small, choking gasps. Connor held Murphy tightly, absorbing his shaking. The two sat in silence. Connor rested his head on top of his brother's, lightly moving back his blonde hair.

"Shh, Murph. I'm here. We're alright."

Murphy shook his head. The dreams had gotten worse.

"Tell me."

So Murphy told him. Everything. At the end of many stuttered sentences and sobs, Murphy buried his face in Connor's chest again. Even if he was only younger by a couple minutes, Connor would always be his big brother. The closest thing Murphy had had for a father. Connor was always there. The nightmares, the wounds, everything. And Murphy would always be there for him. A knock interrupted them. Connor stood, reassuring Murphy who laid back against his pillow.

"Hello?" It was Mrs. Hudson. She looked extremely worried. Connor's hand went to his neck, covering his tattoo there. She didn't seem to care, looking past him into the room.

"Is… is everything okay?"

"'S' fine, Mrs. Hudson. T'ank ye." Connor was glad that they hadn't decided to tattoo their chests. Mrs. Hudson nodded gently, bidding them goodnight. Connor closed the door, turning back to Murphy. "Gonna be alright, ye son of a bitch?"

"Fuck off, Conn."

Connor laughed, returning to his bed. What he couldn't tell Murphy was that he had the same dreams. But Murphy died by his hands.

* * *

Please R&R. Thanks guys!

SMH


	3. Chapter 3

I'll admit it. I'm going through an Irish phase. Polishin' me Irish accent, learnin' some Gaelic, and writing about the Boondock Saints! However, as all of you don't know, I am a direct descendent of the Great Cromwell. Great, my ass. It's painful to think that my bloodline had such bloody intentions. Sigh… My best friend's Irish too…

And are any of you Stargate fans? You should check out me mate, smfah1113!

I don't own Boondock Saints or Sherlock.

Getting Settled

"Sherlock, Lestrade is calling me. Why don't you pick up your phone?" John yelled up the stairs. Sherlock didn't reply. "Don't ignore me." Something was thrown across the room, thumping hard against the wall. "Sherlock!" A door slammed open. Sherlock sulked down the stairs, robe tied tightly around his midsection.

"You need coffee."

"What makes you think that?"

Sherlock scanned John, picking up everything. Disheveled hair from sleeping on the couch, dark circles around his eyes. There were indents in his skin where IPod headphones had wrapped themselves around his skin. Their neighbors certainly had a rough first night. Sherlock knew the screams as panic, however, John had a very different idea. John hadn't slept a wink. And he had another date.

"You know what, shut up. Answer your phone." John lobbed the device at him and collapsed back into the couch. Sherlock caught it swiftly and brought it to his ear.

"What?"

"_Got in touch with Fynes. There's a person on the inside helping the Saints. It was rumored to be one Special Agent Smecker of the FBI, but he was pronounced dead months ago. Another thing: another agent on the case, one Eunice Bloom, was determined missing in the past couple weeks._"

"She helped them under the radar and into Britain. Keep me informed. I'll be down in a minute. Tell Molly to get coffee. John needs it."

"Shuddup…" came the muffled reply from the disgruntled doctor.

"_See you then. How are the new neighbors?_"

"Loud." Sherlock flipped closed the phone. "Come on, John. Work to do." With a cry from John, Sherlock ripped away his blankets and forced him to his feet. "Then you can sleep, alright?"

"Fine."

Sherlock managed to get John into the cab before John's eyes fluttered closed. Slightly snoring, John pressed his face against the window. Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone.

_Any news on the MacManus brothers?_

_SH_

His phone pinged loudly moments later.

_Nothing. I'm here with Lestrade._

_M_

Sherlock resisted the urge to chuckle. The Saints of South Boston had become in a week's time famous among the highest of society, including his brother. It was a rare occasion that Sherlock tolerated his brother's help in a case, but Mycroft knew people in the US who had personally dealt with the Saints. Mycroft was a tool. Nothing more at this point.

* * *

Murphy rolled over, moaning something in Gaelic. He jolted awake as he hit the ground. He knew he was alive when he heard the cackling of Connor. Connor nearly fell over, shaking with laughter.

"Fucker!" He pulled himself up, flinching. Flashing Connor the finger, Murphy stalked over to their makeshift refrigerator. He grabbed a beer and collapsed on the couch. "Did Smecker find us a payin' job yet?" The two had been living on beer and cigarettes since getting off the boat.

"Mhm."

"Let me guess… meat packin'?"

"Restaurant, actually."

Murphy sniffed, popping the beer cap off with his teeth. Connor winced. "Bus boys or some shit like dat?"

"Apparently, dey didn't ask questions. Jus' needed workers." Connor snatched the beer out of his brother's hand. Murphy growled in frustration, but didn't fight back. "Stop fuckin' with yer stomach. Dat Mrs. Hudson lass made us some breakfast. She deserves yer not-drunk arse." Connor replaced the beer bottle, picking up his shirt. "Besides, ya don't want ta waste good food, righ'?"

"Righ'."

Connor tugged the shirt over his head, smoothing it over his bandaging. The first thing that either brother had done when they entered 221A was change their bandaging. It had hurt, but with the other's help, either man had managed without completely waking up the neighbors. Murphy followed suit, shrugging on a dark hoodie. They left the flat, locking the door just to be safe.

* * *

Sherlock stalked into the morgue, John at his heels. Molly jumped, dropping a stryofoam cup filled with coffee all over her shoes. "Oh!"

"That happy to see us?" John grabbed a bunch of paper towels from underneath the counter. After digging past several saws, he found one and knelt to help Molly with her shoes. She turned bright red, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "Easy to fix. Are you alright?"

"Yeah…" Sherlock knitted together his brow, approaching the body of Bernando Verganza for the second time. He would have almost looked like he was sleeping had there not been two bullet holes where his eyes should have been. Sherlock barely moved as Lestrade and Mycroft joined him.

"How do you plan on catching them, Lestrade?" Sherlock tilted his head, lifting the fingers of Verganza off from the table.

Lestrade was taken aback. "Wait… what?"

"He asked how you plan to catch them," Mycroft sighed. He eyed his brother. "Really, Sherlock, I think Lestrade is more than capable…"

Sherlock turned on his brother, eyes blazing with fierce intelligence. He slipped his coat off of his shoulders, throwing it at him. With a smirk, he replied, "Be a dear brother and hang that up." Mycroft let the coat drop from his hands, glaring. Turning back to Lestrade, Sherlock asked again. "Well? How do you plan to get them?"

Lestrade frowned, crossing his arms. "Well… we really don't… we could…"

"Wait around until they strike again?"

John looked up from tending Molly's shoes. "Don't you think that's a bit… unethical perhaps! These are killers." John pulled himself up from the floor.

"Killers that are wiping the scum off the streets, right Inspector?" Sherlock towered over Lestrade, almost menacingly. The Inspector said nothing, just huffed. John had to give Lestrade some credit. He had dealt with Sherlock far longer than John had. "You don't want them to stop quite yet, not when London's crime lords still reign supreme…" Lestrade's expression shifted to one that suggested a fist in Sherlock's direction at any minute.

"Sherlock, stop harassing him." Mycroft yawned, eyes locked on the umbrella at his feet. "It was my orders to wait."

Sherlock snorted. Right. "Let me guess, we're expecting guests from Boston?"

"How did…?" Lestrade lead off. Before Sherlock could answer, Lestrade lifted a hand. "You know what, I don't care. Yes. Detectives Duffy and Dolly of the Boston PD. They'll be arriving at any minute. They personally dealt with Smecker and Bloom during the Saints case. They could be invaluable."

Sherlock brought his fingers up to his lips, pacing. Of course, they _could_ be. But Sherlock's gut told him otherwise. In order to pull off as many stunts as they did, the Saints would have needed not just special agents, but regular officers in the police force. Details clouded over in his mind. Religious, unemployed, Irish…. Probably drinkers too. Sherlock closed his eyes, pinpointing the best places for the Saints to hide.

"Westminster Cathedral."

"What?" John arched an eyebrow.

"They're catholic. And foreign… They'll seek out a common sight… Therefore Westminster. Lestrade, set up search parties around the Cathedral. Ten mile radius." Sherlock picked up his coat from the ground. "And Molly, don't drop the coffee next time." Sherlock shrugged the fabric over his shoulders and disappeared down the hall.

* * *

Connor took a swig of the tea, nearly choking as the heat filled his throat. Mrs. Hudson shot him a look of concern, but with a wave of his hand, she returned to Murphy's story. Naturally, Mrs. Hudson was curious about Ireland. Murphy was more than willing to spill.

"So then, Ian leapt off the fuc… freakin' horse on ta da sheep! Broke four fuc… freakin' bones!" Murphy burst out laughing, tears appearing in the corners of his eyes. Mrs. Hudson laughed politely, but Connor caught her staring at his leg. He flashed a reassuring smile.

"It was really a surprise dat Ma didn' kill us in our teenage years." Connor laughed. Murphy came down from his own bout of laughter, smiling at the empty plates in front of him. "T'ank ya for da breakfast. God only knows de last time we had a meal like dat."

"Of course! I'm glad that you agreed to it." Mrs. Hudson refilled Connor's mug. "My other residents don't really have time for tea and you two looked… nice." She stood up, gathering the empty dishes in her hands. "I'll just go wash these up and then you can tell me more stories about your adventures!" Connor immediately stood.

"Let me help ya."

Connor hobbled into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, gently taking the dishes out of her hands. Murphy laid back in his chair, a sly smile spread across his lips. He brought the mug to his mouth and drank. Suddenly regretting decision, Murphy coughed violently. Connor poked his head out from the kitchen.

"Ya alright, 'Sean'?"

"F… fuckin' eh, 'Ian'."

Connor chuckled, returning to the clinking dishes. The door to the flats swung open. Murphy jumped, hand flying to his side. He didn't actually have a gun, but his reflexes forced his hands to defend. A tall figure raced inside, slamming closed the door. Another man followed, closing the door lightly in contrast to the first. Murphy sank down into his chair, hoping he was covered enough by the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" announced a voice. It was smooth, but had a sharp tang. Mrs. Hudson appeared from the kitchen, sighing.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Can you get us some tea or something?"

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear…" Mrs. Hudson huffed.

"And we won't forget it," reassured another voice. This one sounded more human, more down to Earth. Connor went to follow Mrs. Hudson, but Murphy grabbed his jeans. The two exchanged a worried look.

_Don't._

_Why?_

Mrs. Hudson opened the door wider, betraying her two guests. "Ian, Sean! Come say hi to your neighbors." She readdressed the other two. "Nicest little boys, let me tell you. All the way from Ireland." Murphy stood, gently prodding his brother forward. The two came nose to nose with the other men. Well, almost.

"Ian and Sean Callaghan, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

Connor stuck out a friendly hand, which was taken up by John. "How are ye?"

"Doing well, ta."

Sherlock and Murphy met eyes, just staring. Sherlock's stomach tingled at the sight of the man, something tinged with familiarity, but for the first time in a long time, he couldn't remember. That was odd. He didn't like it. Murphy felt the cool eyes watch over him, warily crossing his arms, never breaking the harsh gaze. He recognized the name. Sherlock Holmes. It was on the news a lot. John and Connor seemed to be getting along fine.

"Does he always do that?" John motioned to Murphy.

"Only if he smells anodder dog… 'Sean', what are ya doin'?"

"Nothin'. T'ought I recognized him." Murphy awoke as if from a daze.

"Funny how that is…" Sherlock whispered.

* * *

Please please please R&R!

SMH


	4. Chapter 4

Continuing on with BDS. I'm actually getting my friend to see it soon. Which would be awesome. She doesn't get the reference, especially when I tell that I'll get my stupid rope. Also… big shout-out to DJ Frost! My only reviewer… Really, guys? Thanks DJ Frost. I love you.

I don't own BDS or Sherlock.

Vergüenza 

Fredrico Verganza was not happy: he was in fact, pissed. After moving to London, the Verganzas had carved a niche for themselves, providing illegal drugs to the majority of London's population. With his _Papá, _Bernando, at the lead, there was nothing to stop the Spanish crime lords. That was until they found his body, bullet hole through his eyes. Fredrico, an anger management patient as it was, vowed that he would find the _malparatos_ that had killed his father and rip them apart.

"Señor Verganza?" a voice came from outside the door through the intercom. Fredrico leaned over his desk, pressing the intercom button.

"What?"

"Louis is here to see you."

Fredrico rolled his eyes. "Send him in."

Louis dePalo couldn't be happier as he trudged into the Jefe's office. He walked with a spring in his step, light grey hair bouncing along with his heels. He had worked for the Verganzas for years, providing information. Fredrico watched him warily, sitting back against his chair. Louis smiled, sitting opposite, lip curling back to betray yellowed teeth.

"I've got news about the death of your Padre, Jefe."

"Do you?"

"Si, I know who did it."

This caught Fredrico's attention. He brought his fingertips to his lips, staring at Louis. "Who?"

"Quid pro quo, Jefe."

"Of course…" Fredrico nodded. Without warning, Fredrico whipped out a colored pistol, jumping over his desk. He buried the muzzle into the soft of Louis's neck. Louis squeaked in surprise, breath catching in his throat. "Who killed my father? I'll give you your life." Fredrico cocked back the gun, digging it deeper into Louis's neck. Louis breathed slowly, closing his eyes. "Louis…" Fredrico's fingers curled around the trigger, squeezing.

"Okay! It… it was the Saints. The Saints of… S…. South… Boston!"

Fredrico pulled the gun away. "The Saints?" He chuckled. "They're in jail!" Cold metal assaulted Louis's neck again.

"NO! They… they escaped…"

"I don't believe you."

BANG.

Louis slumped dead on the chair, mouth agape. Blood dribbled from the side of his mouth. Fredrico flinched as the blood splattered over him. Fredrico didn't mind blood. All crime bosses had to learn to fight dirty, but this blood was that of a degenerate. Fredrico sat back down, closing his eyes.

It was good to be in control.

* * *

The incense of the church wafted through the pews. Everything was silent, save the burning of candles, flames hissing as they went out. Connor and Murphy, heads bowed, quietly whispered prayers in all languages, fingers looped around their rosaries. A side door opened, sending a bit of a draft through the old church. A priest hurried in, robes swishing at his feet. Connor's head shot up, bringing his rosary to his lips. Kissing the cross, he stood, leaving Murphy bent in prayer. The priest was scurrying between the candles, lighting them with a matchbook. Connor bowed slightly before the altar before he whipped out a silver lighter.

"Might I 'elp ya, Father?" The priest jumped about three feet in the air, before stuttering his reply.

"Y… yes, thank you, my son."

Connor flicked the lighter, lighting the wicks with care. Between the two of them, they lit nearly half the church.

"Thank you."

"T'aint a problem. T'ank you fer yer service to da Lord." Connor replaced his lighter, smiling. "Me name's Ian. And dat dere is me brodder, Sean." Connor's eyes caught a picture set up in the back of the room. It was of a tall looking Spaniard. "If I may ask, Father, what are ye preparin' for?"

The priest sighed. "Funeral. Poor man was murdered in his own house. My name is Father Benson. I haven't seen you in my congregation before. Have you just arrived from Ireland?"

"Not Ireland, I'm 'fraid. United States." Connor motioned to Murphy. "Though we are originally from the Motherland. In fact, we're close ta here. Flat only a few minutes away."

"Then I hope to see you at mass this week!" Father Benson smiled. Connor admired how his eyes crinkled with genuine happiness. It was a rare thing these days for the brothers. Especially after the death of their father. The front of the church opened with a squeak, garnering the attention of the now-blonde twin. Murphy's head shot up, looking towards Connor, question on his lips. A short man with greased black hair pressed forward, eyes focused on the priest. Connor instinctively stood in front of the holy man, but Father Benson placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Mr. Verganza, preparations are almost complete for tonight. Please understand." Father Benson's voice was calm as the Spanish man stared him down. Murphy's eyes connected with Connor. Verganza. Murdered in his house. Murphy tucked the rosary back into his shirt, standing. He knelt at the altar and joined his brother.

"Certainly don't look like clergymen to me, Father." Verganza pointed to the twins. He looked at the rosaries with a slight tilt of his head.

"We're not clergy, Señor. Jus' visitin'." Connor worked his accent out of his voice. Not quite American, but not the thick Irish accent that he was used to speaking. "Spain, yes?"

"Si." Verganza handed Father Benson a crumpled note. "It'll be done by 7, Padre." It wasn't a question. Father Benson nodded, feigning delight. As soon as Verganza turned his back to leave, his face morphed into one of disgust.

"My sons, I find it hard to bear that man." Father Benson answered truthfully. "Or his father, but I shall respect his last rites. Thank you for your help, Ian." Father Benson placed a wrinkled hand on both Connor and Murphy's shoulders. "These virtues are not seen very often in today's youth. Let me pray for you." Connor and Murphy nodded, bowing their heads in unison. Father Benson lightly squeezed their shoulders. "_Lord Jesus, open our eyes that we may see you in all our sisters and brothers. Open our minds that we may understand their hopes and dreams, their sorrows and pain, their longing for you. Open our hearts to give generously of ourselves. Grant us wisdom to respond effectively to the needs of your people with grace and compassion. Give us the courage to speak your words of life, peace, love, mercy and human solidarity. Bless the people whom we serve, and strengthen the staff and volunteers who reach out to them every day in your spirit of Charity. Amen. _"

"Amen." The twins said in unison.

"Best o' luck wit the funeral, Father." Murphy smiled.

"An' we'll be down fer mass."

Father Benson watched the brothers exit the church, each flicking out a cigarette as the door closed behind them. Their moves were identical. Perfectly in time with the other. If Father Benson didn't know any better, he would call them twins.

* * *

Sherlock was going through withdrawal again. Ripping through the flat, he flung papers everywhere. They drifted down to the floor like butterflies where they would be disrupted over and over again by Sherlock's desperate search for nicotine. John took another sip form his tea, more interested in the newspaper than the frantic detective. Sherlock groaned in frustration, tearing the knife out of the mantle.

"Where did you put them?" Sherlock collapsed to the ground, groping underneath John's chair. John kicked him in the side, disrupting him. Sherlock grabbed his foot menacingly, but replaced it.

"We're going to get through this…"

"We?" Like a fox, the detective shot to his feet and bounded up the stairs.

"Don't you dare touch my rooms!"

"Don't boss me around." Sherlock laughed in triumph, swinging the door open. He shifted through piles of laundry, throwing things against the wall. "Where are they?"

"I'm not telling you!"

"And why not?"

"Stop acting like a five year old."

A knock resounded off the wood of the door. John stood up, brushing crumbs from his pants. Sherlock threw something else. John opened the door, smiling.

"Sorry about the mess! Come on in!" He ushered the Callaghan brothers inside, closing the door. Connor's eyes immediately went to the papers scattered along the ground. "Sherlock's in a mood."

"I am NOT in a mood, John."

John cleared off the couch, inviting the brothers to sit. "How's London treating you?"

"Quite well, actually," chirped Connor. He picked up a piece of paper, glancing over it before setting it on the coffee table. "T'ank ya for de invite."

Sherlock shuffled down the stairs, sulking to his armchair. Sliding his knees up to his chest, he glared at John. Realizing that they weren't alone, Sherlock motioned to the brothers' jackets. "Cigarettes. Can you…?"

"No, Sherlock. He's quitting." John sighed.

"Right…" Murphy nodded. "How'd ya know we are smokers?"

"Nicotine stains on your fingers." Sherlock sighed. "Obvious."

Connor whistled, impressed. "Yer a natural? Detective, I'm assumin'?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He tilted his head, still eyeing their pockets. Connor stood, grabbing his brother's arm. They removed their jackets and took them to the racks. Murphy pressed a couple cigarettes into Sherlock's hand as he passed. They sat back down on the couch, mirroring each other almost perfectly.

"What else can ya tell about us?" Murphy asked. He was apprehensive about this Sherlock character. Using Sherlock's ego, Murphy figured that he could find out just how much he knew about them.

"I can tell that you are brothers, most likely twins. You were born in Ireland, but spent some time in the States. Your accents aren't as strong as they would normally be. Around other Irish people, I mean. I can also tell that you two fight with each other a lot. There are bruises on your arms that suggest punches at a close range. There are bandages under your shirts which I would link to bar fights. You're both drinkers, but just because you're Irish, doesn't mean you would be. I know that you're borderline alcoholics by the shake in your leg. You're constantly moving. You're anxious." Sherlock crossed his arms. "That's what I know. All right I assume?"

"Alcoholic?" Murphy snorted. "We're fuckin' Irish!"

"We can hold our alcohol, Mr. Holmes." Connor shrugged. "We're anxious because our kind isn't liked very much around t'ese parts. The Irish never got along wit the English."

"Still don'."

"I'll give ya one ting t'ough. Yer good. Really good."

John laughed. "Yeah, when I first met him, I wouldn't shut up about how amazing he was."

"Are ya two… ya know…?" Connor tried to say it politely.

"What? No! Why does everybody think that we're gay…?" John threw his hands up in the air. "I'm getting some tea. Anyone want anything?"

"Tea would be lovely, John. Don't use the microwave." Sherlock relaxed back into the chair. "What was your hair originally, Ian?" Connor looked up at him in surprise.

"Uh… blonde, actually."

Murphy stifled a laugh.

"Oi! Shut it, Surfer boy!"

"Lo vado a pasticciare in su!"

"Póg mo thóin na hÉireann!"

John entered just as Connor decided to grab Murphy, pushing him against the couch. Sherlock laughed. "I can't control them…" Connor straddled his brother, punching him in the shoulder. Murphy pushed him off, punching back.

"HEY!"

Connor and Murphy looked up, fists raised. Their determination shifted into one of guilty puppies, separating.

""M sorry."

"Meant no harm."

John laughed. "Keep your fighting to the bars, alright?"

"Nah, I think he enjoys it." Sherlock scanned the Irish brothers. "Pleasure to meet you. Now bored. I'm going to the Scotland Yard. Don't wait up." Sherlock slammed the door behind him, leaving them alone with John.

"T'anks for the tea."

* * *

It was Connor who woke up from nightmares that night. His mind was far more cruel.

Connor pulled the gun out of his shoulder holster, breathing slowly. He could hear the breathing from the other room, their heartbeats thumping audibly in the silence. Connor kicked open the door, shooting and yelling. They didn't even expect it. One by one, they dropped, anguished cries silent upon their lips. There was one left. Connor yanked the man up by his hair, forcing him onto his knees. The man looked up at him, betrayal evident over his features.

It was Murphy.

"Conn, what are ya doin'?"

"Téigh go dtí ifreann, deartháir."

"CONN!"

"In Nomine Patri. Et filli. Et Spiritus Sancti."

Connor squeezed the trigger. Murphy lay still, bullet through the back of his head. Connor couldn't feel anything. No remorse. No sorrow. He looked around at the other bodies, starting his routine. Dolly. Duffy. Greenley. Bloom. Smecker. Romeo. Rocco. Da. Ma. All dead. And Connor couldn't feel one fucking thing.

Connor screamed awake, holding his head in his hands. He didn't realize he was crying until he felt an arm loop around him. Murphy. Connor felt sick. He tore from the grip of his twin, racing into the bathroom. He retched, bile mixing with tears and blood. There were long scratches down his arms, self-inflicted. Murphy followed, rubbing slow circles on his back. Connor rested his head on the toilet, breathing through his nose.

"Hey, easy Conn. Yer alright."

Connor nodded, tears still raining down in torrents. He threw himself at his brother, back curling with sobs. Murphy held his brother. They sat there for what seemed hours, just being together. No matter what. They'd always be together. That was all that mattered.

* * *

Quick Translation:

Lo vado a pasticciare in su: I'm going to mess you up. (Italian)

Póg mo thóin na hÉireann: Kick My Irish Ass (Gaelic. I freaking love the song too!)

Téigh go dtí ifreann, deartháir: Go to hell, brother. (Gaelic)

Please R&R! Thanks!

SMH


	5. Chapter 5

DJ Frost, Thanks! Again! I'm in debt to you.

I don't own BDS or Sherlock.

Boring…

The latest job was the hardest.

Connor's gun, faithful as it once was, jammed, sending either brother into a swearing fit. It gave enough time for the mark to get brave. He grabbed Murphy's coat, jerking him back. He slammed Murphy against the wall. With a yelp, Murphy slammed the barrel of his gun against the mark's head. It was messy. Unlike the Saints. Maybe that was a good thing. Connor tossed the gun away, sad like he had lost an old friend. Murphy slid down the wall, holding the side of his head. He ripped a bottle out of his pocket, dousing the wall with ammonia.

"Murph! Ya okay?" Connor ran to his side, jerking the ratty mask from his face. Murphy nodded.

"'M fine! Is he dead?"

Connor bent over the man, fingers groping at his throat. No pulse. Now to his wrist. Nothing. "Yeah. Gotcha good, didn' he?" Connor crossed the man's arms over his chest and placed two shiny pennies on his eyes.

"Shut it, Conn."

Connor laughed, hauling Murphy up onto his shoulder. "How do you always get inta trouble?"

Murphy groaned. The two stumbled away from the flat and out into the cool London air. Had anyone actually been paying attention, one might notice the blood soaked twins. Murphy's blonde hair was matted with drying blood. Connor's red hair was darkened with blood splatter, Murphy's and the others. Connor shrugged, adjusting his brother on his shoulder. His holster flashed in the evening air, but no one was actually paying attention. The job had been messy, but quiet.

The way back to Baker Street was long, tiring. More than once, Connor dropped Murphy. Murphy would curse and punch his lightly, but in the end, they both managed to get inside the flat. Their own flat was silent, except for the soft hum of a violin. Connor kicked open the door, nearly throwing Murphy onto his bed.

"Let me see." Connor shut the door quietly, aiding Murphy to rid himself of his pea coat. His tough fingers prodded the soft part of Murphy's head. His twin yelped, trying to pull away, but Connor socked him on the arm. "Stay still!" Murphy nodded, wincing as Connor's fingers gently ran over a gash in his head. "Jesus Christ, Murph, that's gonna need more than a band-aid."

"Lord's fucking name…"

"It's real deep too."

"No shit."

Murphy shrugged away from his brother, running a hand through his hair. He looked pale, gaunt. He laid back on his bed, closing his eyes. Connor gently removed his holster for him, tossing it across the room.

"Gonna be okay?"

"Go ta sleep, Conn."

* * *

Sherlock rolled off the couch, bumping rather harshly into the coffee table on the way down. He woke on impact, hands out in front of him like he had failed to catch himself. After the initial shock, he rested his forehead back on the ground. Making sure he was heard, Sherlock groaned loud enough for John to hear.

"Sherlock… what?"

"Making sure you're awake!"

John thumped down the stairs, pulling a sweater over his head. Sherlock rolled onto his back, staring up at his friend. John's eyes were darkened with sleep deprivation, and his hair was messy. His sweater hung at an odd angle.

"What do you need?"

"Nothing. Rolled off the couch."

"You were being dramatic."

A knock resounded from the door. John straightened his sweater. His eyes caught on the clock. Three in the bloody morning. Sherlock pulled himself up, leaning on the coffee table. He crouched on the couch, waiting. John opened the door. "Oh my God…"

Connor hauled Murphy up on one arm. His expression was one of panic, desperation. Murphy was pale, sweat pouring down from his forehead. "Yer a doctor, aye?" Connor asked quickly. He pushed past John, searching for somewhere to lay his brother. Sherlock jumped off the couch, assisting in laying down the feverish Irishman. Murphy moaned, eyes half closed. "I asked, are ye a doctor?"

John nodded. "What happened exactly?"

"B… bar fight. Mur… Sean hit tha wall. I t'ought he'd be okay… got 'im home. He was fine…" Connor ran a shaking hand through his hair. John nodded again, taking it the sight. His own fingers found the gash on the back of Murphy's head.

"Sherlock, I need my kit now."

Sherlock didn't protest. There was something about Connor that had him on his toes. Genuine worry. Connor paced, moving only slightly from his path as Sherlock rushed John his bag. John ripped it open, taking alcohol pads. He pressed him to the wound, cleaning off dried blood.

"Ian, listen to me. Sean's going to be okay." John insisted. "It's infected. We need to get to a hospital, alright?" Connor shook his head.

"No hospitals. Lousy service. Ye can help him!"

"Ian…"

"No!"

John sighed, clearing off the rest of the wound. Murphy was burning up underneath him. Without warning, Murphy jerked his head to the side. He yelped, eyes snapping open. He scrambled away from John. "Connor!"

Connor leapt towards him, wrapping his arms around him. "Come on, ye bastard, this needs to be done…" Sherlock made note of the sadness in Connor's eyes. He also made note of the name. Connor. There was something hidden here. And Sherlock had a hunch. His thoughts were interrupted as Murphy yelped again. Connor wrestled his brother into the couch, holding him in place as John stitched him up. He whispered to him gently. "I'm here, Murph." Sherlock heard everything. As he had commented several times, it was more efficient to talk in low tones, without emphasizing certain letters than to whisper.

"Conn, I'm… I'm sorry."

"Shut up, ye eejit."

Before long, Murphy passed out again. The fever was still high, but John dumped the entirety of the icemaker into a plastic bag, wrapped it in a towel, and placed the bag onto Murphy's chest. Connor thanked him, and John went to make tea. Sherlock sat across from Connor, who placed his dirty head into his hands.

"I'm sorry about that bar fight."

"Wasn' yer fault."

Sherlock leaned across the table. "I knew I recognized you."

Connor looked up from his arms. "What are ye talkin' about?"

Sherlock just smirked, whipping out a phone. His fingers lazily drifted over the screen. "How long did you live in Boston, Mr. MacManus?"

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb. I know." There was a cruel spark in his eyes.

Connor panicked. With as much force as he could muster, Connor leapt over the table and delivered a sharp punch across Sherlock's face. Sherlock jumped back, surprised, head snapping to the side. He grabbed Connor's shoulders, wrestling to the ground. He tasted the sharp tang of blood, but he eventually got on top of the Irishman. He punched Connor in the stomach, forcing air from his lungs. John raced in, tea long forgotten.

"What the hell…?" John pulled the two of them apart.

"Ye say anythin', I'll kill ya!" Connor's accent was thick, but menacing. He leapt for Sherlock's throat, but John managed to push him away again. "Swear ta God!" John looked at Sherlock questioningly.

"It's nothing, John." Sherlock straightened his coat. He was angry, but he maintained a serial killer-like calm. "Absolutely nothing."

"Mother fucker!" Connor slammed a fist against the wall. "I knew I couldn' trust ye." His voice garbled in frustration and hatred. "Shoulda listened ta 'im!" He gestured toward Murphy.

"Should have thought about that…"

"_I'll kill ya!_" Connor grabbed Sherlock by his throat, pushing him against the wall. John went to assist, but Sherlock waved him off. Although in physical stress, Sherlock knew how to handle himself. Grabbing Connor's wrists, he met the harsh gaze.

"Listen, I'm not going to turn you in. Not yet."

Connor hissed, vein bulging in his forehead. "What do ya mean?"

"Calm down."

"Fuck dat!"

"Connor…"

"Don' ya dare call me dat!"

Sherlock sighed, loosing Connor's hands from his neck. The man was tired, weak with exhaustion. Sherlock pointed to his fingers, speaking softly, almost gently. "You hold your gun too tight. I assume that the hit didn't go well?" Connor glared at him, but Sherlock managed to squeeze past him. John went to his side, checking mentally for any abrasions or bruising. Connor met John's gaze, pleadingly.

"Will… will 'e be okay?" He looked rather like a kicked puppy. John nodded.

"He's stable."

Connor crossed himself quietly. "'M sorry." He tried a smile, failing. "Turn us in. We're safer dere."

"Not happening."

Connor's face betrayed bewilderment. "We're criminals."

Sherlock snorted. "So am I in many aspects." John absentmindedly reached down to touch Murphy's forehead. Though still covered in sweat, the fever had broken. He was sleeping peacefully. John's expertly wrapped bandages were stained with drops of scarlet, but it had stopped its flow. Sherlock placed a hesitant hand on Connor's shoulder, lest he decide to jump him again. "Look, you could be a great source of information…"

John sighed. "Can I be part of this conversation?"

Connor tightened his jaw, but replied. "Me name is Connor MacManus. Dat is me brudder, Murphy MacManus. We're known as the Saints of South Boston. Pleasure ta… uh… meet ya."

John's mouth dropped. "Sherlock! Can I… have a word?" He tried to maintain composure as Sherlock nodded towards the kitchen. Once they were alone, John nearly exploded. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing? These are criminals! I'm calling Greg…"

"John, stop."

"You're unusually calm!"

"You're panicking!"

"I'm not _fucking_ panicking!"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Right." He lowered his voice. "They're invaluable, John. Invaluable. They have information on hundreds of drug dealers, crime bosses…. Ad nauseum." Sherlock insisted. John refused to meet his gaze. "John, we can't turn them in."

"Yeah."

* * *

They had been in the kitchen for ages. Connor kneeled beside the couch, holding Murphy's hand. He kept track of his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Connor opened his eyes. Murphy squeezed his brother's hand, opening his in turn.

"Christ risen from the grave."

"Shut de fuck up, Conn." Murphy smirked. "Are ye alright?"

"'M fine." Connor shrugged. "Scared de fucking hell out of me, Murph. Don' do t'at."

"Do dey know?"

"Aye."

"Fuck."

Murphy tried to pull himself off the couch, but Connor pushed him back down gently. "Calm it down, Murph. You'll kill yerself."

"Are dey gonna tell?"

"Nah. Don' think so. Dat Sherlock tinks we'll be good fer somethin'."

Murphy laughed. But it was painful. He hated seeing his brother like this. Connor's eyes were dark, bags apparent. His reddish hair was stuck at odd angles, and not the ordinary kind. He smiled in a thin line, not the full on grin that Murphy laughed to when they were drunk. His shoulders sagged. Connor looked so much like Da after a particularly nasty hit. Murphy wrapped an arm around his brother, resting his head on the couch pillow.

Sherlock and John reentered. Connor looked at them expectantly.

"So?"

John let out a frustrated sigh. "What can we do to help?"

* * *

Uh oh… they know. Just wait. I might throw in some awesome pranks, DJF… I'm thinking about it. They're one big happy family. Blech. Please R&R. Thanks!

SMH


	6. Chapter 6

I really want to meet the guys… from both Sherlock and Boondock Saints…

I don't own BDS or Sherlock.

Too Close

Connor giggled uncontrollably, hiding behind the door. It had been a week since Sherlock and John learned of the Saints. Murphy had recovered, but John suggested that they hold off any jobs until he got rid of the nasty concussion he had suffered. Murphy was in hell. No TVs, no books, no focusing… and Connor loved it all.

Sherlock ignored their antics, working on creating alibis for the brothers. It wasn't great, but it got rid of the boredom for a bit. Connor covered his mouth, repressing the giggles. Sherlock smiled slightly. John and Murphy both were in for quite a surprise. Especially since Connor had stolen Sherlock's experimental firecrackers. John reentered the living room, two mugs in his hand. Murphy sat on the couch, legs tucked under his chin in frustration. He wouldn't even let him smoke.

"Thanks." Murphy accepted the mug, inhaling the sweet smell of chamomile. "Can I smoke yet?"

"No."

Connor laughed a little louder and pressed the ignition switch. A bang resounded from under the couch. Both John and Murphy shot up, swearing. Sherlock had to chuckle a bit. The looks on their faces were priceless. Murphy pressed a finger against his temple.

"CONNOR!"

Connor fell over in utter amusement. Murphy leapt from the couch, storming through the door. He found his brother rolling on the ground. Connor grunted as Murphy jumped on top of him and they begin to wrestle. The flat door swung open, revealing Mrs. Hudson. She gasped, racing to the brothers' side.

"My goodness! What are you doing?" The boys stopped fighting, turning slightly. Murphy snorted as Connor turned red. The kind old lady reminded the brothers a little bit of their own grandmother. Without the drinking of course.

"Do leave them be, Mrs. Hudson. They're only doing damage to themselves." Sherlock flipped closed his laptop. He leaned over his desk. "What?"

"Inspector Lestrade is here to see you again."

Connor and Murphy shot up. "We'll be, erm, seein' ya later, Sherlock. John." Connor nodded politely. Murphy smiled in agreement. The two slipped on their pea coats, almost running towards the door. They collided with a shorter figure who grunted.

"Oi! Watch it…" Lestrade backed up, dusting off his jacket. "Who are you lot then?"

"I… I'm Ian. Dis is me brudder, Sean." Connor grinned amicably. "We were jus' goin'."

"Pleasure ta meetcha, whoever da Hell ya are." Murphy moved around the Inspector, scrunching up his nose. "Ease up on da perfume, a'right?" Connor joined him, stifling more giggles.

Lestrade watched the boys leave. "Who the hell are they?"

"New boarders." Mrs. Hudson gasped as she walked into the living room. "Sherlock! What have you done to my good carpet?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

Eunice Bloom pulled the laces of her boots, tightening them until her calves begged her to stop. It wasn't that she minded living in London, but she preferred to wear her boots through the streets. And it simply wasn't home. She heard a knock, running to get it. She opened the door, flipping back her hair.

"Why if it ain't my two boys?"

"Hey Eunice." Connor hugged her quickly, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. Murphy followed suit. Eunice quickly snagged his chin, staring at the bandages still tightly wrapped around his head.

"What happened to you, Murphy?" Eunice asked, tilting her head slightly. Murphy jerked out of her grip, scurrying to her couch. He thumped down, groaning slightly.

"Job gone sour," monotoned Connor. "Could we stay here fer a bit? Please?"

"What's wrong?" Eunice closed the door behind her, gently stepping aside.

"Nothin'. If ya consider dat we're sharin' a flat wit de only consultin' detective in London…" Murphy rolled his eyes. "He's not turnin' us in, but it's fuckin' unnervin'!" Connor nodded in agreement, flopping down next to his brother. The two shared a look while Eunice tapped her foot.

"Alright. I'm callin' Smecker and gettin' you two transferred."

"No!" They chirped in unison.

Eunice crossed her arms, tilting her head. "And why not?"

The brothers faltered. Why not indeed? They liked Mrs. Hudson, to be sure. They didn't mind the Baker Street boys, excluding Lestrade. Why didn't they want to leave? Murphy stuck his thumb in his mouth, chewing on the nail nervously. Connor leaned back, staring directly at his brother. A thousand words were shared without a noise.

"¿Por qué quiere quedarse?" _Why do we want to stay?_

"Murphy, Níl mé ag iarraidh a bhogadh níos mó. Níl mé ag iarraidh a rith." _I don't want to move anymore. I don't want to run. _

"Nemmeno io." _Neither do I._

"Boys, I'm waiting." Eunice sighed. She trasversed the living room, seating down on one of those overly plush seats. She crossed her legs, never looking away from the Irishmen. Connor and Murphy looked back, looking almost wounded.

"¿Las pesadillas parar?" _Will the nightmares stop?_

Connor placed a hand on his brother's neck, squeezing slightly. "I don't know." He met Eunice's gaze. "We don't want ta move 'round anymore. We're wearin' ourselves out." Murphy instinctively reached into his coat, bringing out a cigarette. But before he could stick it between his teeth, Connor swiped it. "We're no good ta anyone exhausted." Murphy smacked Connor in the head, but Connor didn't return the cigarette, simply stuffed it back into his own coat. "Please, Eunice. We want ta stay fer now."

Eunice watched them for a bit. She found it slightly strange that Connor wasn't hitting back, but Murphy seemed to be in enough pain. It was interesting to see the two just be around each other. Connor was constantly wary for his brother and likewise from Murphy to Connor. She pursed her lips, crossing her arms.

"You can stay. Until morning. Then you get back to your own 'partment, alright?"

The boys nodded. That'd work out nicely.

* * *

Murphy snored lightly, rolling over onto his side. They had decided to stay for the evening, but Murphy and Connor had passed out almost simultaneously. Eunice went to bed, situating either brother into a semi-comfortable position. Connor managed to roll onto the floor almost immediately, but settled down comfortably in exhaustion. Murphy let his arm dangle, dangerously close to Connor's face.

_Your job isn't over._

_ Don't run away._

_ Be brave._

_ It is His will. _

Connor and Murphy shot awake, backs arching in pain. Neither spoke, gasping for air. They had heard them. Again. The Angels called for their attention, and they gave it willingly. Connor sat up, pulling his knees against his chest. Murphy flopped back down, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He turned to Connor.

"Who da ya suppose dey're talkin' about, Conn?"

"I dunno, Murph." Connor glanced at the wall clock. "Jesus fuckin' Christ!"

"Lord's fuckin' name… what?" Murphy stood, stretching.

"We're fuckin' late!"

"Fer what?"

"Mass!"

"Fuck!" Murphy lunged at his coat, pulling it over his ratty tee and jeans. Connor followed suit. They were nearly out the door when Connor hissed in pain. He had stepped on a tack. Neither of them was wearing shoes. Murphy swore loudly, tugging his boots out from behind a desk. "Why in de name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph did she stick our fuckin' boots back dere?"

"Because I did." Eunice appeared at the door. Her hair was curled and knotted, carelessly falling down her back. She smelled like coffee and some sort of flowery perfume. "You're not going to church."

"It's fuckin' Sunday!"

"Day o' de Lord!"

"I said you aren't going." Eunice folded her arms across her chest. Connor glared back, not saying a word as he tugged his last boot over his foot. Murphy too was already lacing up his boots, but he didn't say a word. They both stood, bringing forth the rosaries from under their shirts. Eunice sighed as they walked towards the door. "Did you not hear a damn word I said! You can't go! You'll be caught."

"Ain't fuckin' likely." Murphy snarled. He exited the apartment, sliding a smoke between his teeth. Connor went to attack him, but turned back on Eunice.

"Sorry, darlin', but we have priorities."

Eunice couldn't meet his eyes. "You're going to get caught and sent back to jail. They'll put you on Death Row! I promised Smecker…"

"Shh." Connor placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We only got caught de last time 'cause we almost fuckin' died! Not likely ta happen again, 'lright?" Connor pressed a chaste kiss on her cheek, smiling. "Promise. Now if ya'll excuse me, I have a liddle brudder ta yell at. Murphy! No fuckin' smokin', ye bastard!"

"Fuck off!"

Eunice nodded, waving him off of her. "I'll see you later, stud."

Connor chased after his brother, ripping the lit cigarette from his teeth. Murphy smacked him in the back of his head. Connor just laughed, sticking the cigarette in his own mouth. It dangled lazily there, smoke drifting up and surrounding Connor's face. Murphy yanked it from him, but snuffed it anyway. No use fighting.

They made perfect time, stumbling into the church just as Father Benson started mass. The priest faltered silently in his greeting as the brothers crossed themselves and then squeezed into the back row. They knelt down, rosaries already knotted in their hands.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen._

"Amen." The brothers whispered in unison. The smell of the incense and the holy water lulled them into a sort of peace. They were in God's hands now. Connor let his eyes close, fingers touching each of the beads.

_Awaken, my son. _

* * *

Connor shot awake, leaping to his feet. His hand automatically dropped for his gun, but he froze. He wasn't in the church anymore. Soft, pulsing light covered a green and lush garden. Birds sang in the trees above, flying down to spiral and dip against the breeze. The whole place smelled kind of like Eunice's perfume, but less concentrated. Connor relaxed slightly, turning around.

_Hello, Connor._

Connor startled, backing into a tree. The voice dipped in and out of his mind like water. There was a man cloaked in a white robe staring across the garden. His eyes were bright, shining with amusement and sympathy. In his hand, he gripped a silver cane, leaning on it slightly.

"Erm… hi." Connor took a step forward. "Excuse me if I ask this, but where am I?"

_You are home, but you shall return to what you call home soon enough._

Home? Connor gasped suddenly falling to his knees. "I'm s… sorry! I didn' know…" The angel laughed, chest moving only slightly with each spread of amusement.

_Rise, Connor MacManus. You have nothing to be sorry about. Your purpose here is of greater matters. _

"I don't understand what you mean." Connor rose to his feet, head still bowed subserviently. The angel's expression screwed up in sorrow. He stepped forward, lifting Connor's chin gently. Connor met his eyes and the angel continued.

_Connor, there will be a time in the near future where great sorrow will drive you to stray from the Lord's path. You mustn't let that stop you. You must continue. It is the only way. _

"What great sorrow, angel?" Connor's eyes widened. The angel shook his head, placing a soft finger on his lips.

_Our time is up. Speak not to your blood brother of what you heard._

"But…"

_Goodbye, Connor. _

* * *

Connor leaned forward, smacking his head on the other pew. Murphy looked up from his praying.

"Conn?"

"Hm?" Connor stood, helping his brother to his feet. The two crossed to the front of the church, bowing slightly. Father Benson smiled softly at them as he continued his sermon. As was tradition, they kissed the feet of the statue of Jesus, whispering 'Amen'. Pulling away, Murphy caught Connor's eye, noting the concern there. They left, tucking the rosaries back under their shirts.

_A time of great sorrow…_

Connor looked up, tilting his head. Murphy looked at him questioningly, but opened the door to the church.

"Ya alright, Conn?"

"Hm?"

Murphy punched him roughly in the arm. "Stop doin' dat. It's fuckin' annoyin'."

"Yer fuckin' annoying!" hissed Connor. "It's nothin', okay. Jus' drop it."

Murphy watched his brother amble down the steps, lighting his own cigarette. Murph craved the nicotine; it cleared his head. But currently, he knew it would just bother Connor. He followed, obediently ignoring the pack in his coat.

* * *

Another bit of a filler, but the time of 'great sorrow' is approaching.

Please R&R.

SMH


	7. Chapter 7

Hah! I got my mini laptop back. Back to writing whenever and wherever! Haha! I need to re-learn this keyboard…

The Irish Yard

Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "Sherlock, Detectives Duffy and Dolly." He gestured to the men slightly, reclining more and more. It appeared he had sunken into the chair. Sherlock found it amusing. John shook the Boston detectives' hands, nodding friendly greetings. "I brought them here to discuss possible ways to catch the Saints." Sherlock scanned over them quickly, gathering information. Both used to be smokers, but Dolly was trying to quit. His receding hairline framed his already stout figure. Duffy's hair was spiked, but slightly graying.

"It's a pleasure. Sorry for the delay. A case came up in Boston," Dolly smiled. His jaw was moving slightly, moving gum between his teeth. A disgusting habit, but it was better, in John's mind, then the nicotine patches. Sherlock had saved the cigarettes from Murphy for a time of desperation after tricking John into giving up his patches' location.

"We know the Saints and their MO." Duffy crossed his arms over his chest.

"We can get them."

"Like you did in Boston?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows shooting up questioningly.

Duffy opened his mouth to reply, but Dolly nudged him slightly, barely noticeably. Lestrade flicked open his cell, dialing quickly. "Sherlock, you can take them into interrogation. I'll be around later. I'm collecting my alimony tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded. "This way." He weaved through the inspectors and constables, pausing slightly to make sure the others were catching up. John met him first, but Duffy and Dolly had to run slightly to catch up to the consulting detective.

"Sherlock, what're we going to do..?" John whispered.

"You'll see." Sherlock grinned, pushing open a door to his left. In comparison, the interrogation room was quiet, mellow. He sat down, offering the remaining chairs to the detectives. John leaned against the back wall, closing the door. "How well did you know the Saints?"

"We've been with the case since they killed Russian mobsters in self defense…"

"The Saints," Sherlock snapped. "How long have you _known_ them?"

Duffy spoke up. "What the fuck are you talking about?" Dolly was starting to pale, hiding slightly behind his collar. Sherlock pressed his palms onto the table, never moving his eyes from Duffy. Duffy stared right back. "Better yet, what the fuck are you saying? You think we're dirty cops?"

John picked up Sherlock's intentions. "That wasn't what he was saying."

"But it's precisely what I was implying. How long did you work with the Saints?" Sherlock brought his fingers to his lips, pressing back into his chair. Dolly shared a quick look with Duffy. "Don't be so scared. They're our neighbors."

Dolly stifled a laugh. "You're fucking kidding me, right?"

John shook his head. "Not unless you are housing the same smoking twins."

* * *

Murphy couldn't take it anymore. After mass, they had returned to Baker Street. Connor insisted that Murphy lay down and rest for awhile. Murphy fought back. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson appeared before Connor decided that brain damage wasn't _that_ bad. Murphy grudgingly climbed back into bed. He had been sitting there for hours with Connor in their dubbed living room watching an old film.

"I've be'n lyin' in bed fer hours, Conn!"

"Shuddup." Connor chirped. "I'm watchin' the fuckin' 'Italian Stallion'!"

"Who da… whatever! I'm gettin' up whether ya like it or not." Murphy stumbled out of bed, joining his brother on the couch. _Rocky_ made way to commercials, advertising new and impressive things. Connor moved over, grunting slightly as Murphy shifted the weight of the couch.

"Yer gettin' fat, Murph."

"Shuddup, ya eejit. Yer fat."

Connor laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Ya want ta go t'ere?"

Someone knocked on their flat door. Connor rose, pushing Murphy back down onto the couch. Murphy raised a fist, but thought better of it and returned to a commercial about sweets. Connor unlatched the door, opening it with a smile.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Ian, dear! I'm so glad your home!" As usual, Mrs. Hudson had a tea tray in her hand and a wide smile across her face. "I wanted to be sure. I'm going out on holiday for the week and I was hoping that I could catch you before I left." Connor graciously took the tray, nodding his approval.

"T'ank ya, Mrs. Hudson. We appreciate yer kind gestures." Connor replaced the tray in the flat next to his gloves. "Have a good holiday." Mrs. Hudson leaned over the door frame and planted a friendly kiss on his cheek.

"Be safe. I know how Sherlock and John get while I'm away."

"Yes'm." Connor closed the door, ending their conversation. He returned to the couch. Murphy was cradling a beer, remote lying precariously on his knee. Connor swiped the beer, taking a large swig. Murphy didn't react. Then he heard them.

_There. Watch. _

Connor turned. _Rocky_ had been replaced with news from the BBC. A familiar looking face was framed in a silhouette of black. His black hair was greased back with delicate detail. Even his thin mustache was brushed back with care. Murphy stared with wide eyes at the screen. Neither spoke a word until the news changed back to weather.

"Target?"

"Mhm." Connor took another drink of Murphy's beer. "Tanight?"

"Aye." Murphy pulled himself out of the chair. He grunted, holding his head in his hands as he straightened. "Fuckin' eh…"

"Feelin' up to it, brudder?" Connor had already slipped on his pea coat, tugging on his gloves.

"Fuck ye; I'm fine!" Murphy joined him, moving identically to his brother. The two dropped the subject as they pulled their guns from behind the mattresses. Connor immediately flicked open the magazine, thumbing the bullets. Murphy screwed on his silencer, checking the sights. He froze, catching his twin's eye. "What?"

"Is féidir an Tiarna libh," Connor patted his brother harshly on the back. Murphy grinned, squeezing Connor's hand gently.

"I'll be fine, Conn. Tis de Lord's will, righ'?"

Connor forced a smile. He slung his duffel over his shoulder. All Connor could think about was the Angel's message. _A time of great sorrow_… With hoods raised and masks prepped, the two stepped out into the cool London night.

* * *

Fredrico Verganza paced back and forth in his office. Already, crime lords were beginning to fall in London and it had only been a couple of weeks. He shifted a handgun back and forth in his sweaty palms, flicking on and off the safety. His right hand man, Julio, watched him warily, eyes locked solely on the gun.

"Señor?"

"Yes?" Fredrico paused, gun balanced on his fingertips. Julio flinched but continued.

"Padre Benson called. He wishes to speak to you about…"

"Cancel, Julio."

"Si, señor."

Fredrico set down his gun idly. "I can't believe they fucking escaped!" He began to knead his forehead. "I thought that maybe… fuck it. I shouldn't have killed Louis."

"Can't argue there." Julio shrugged.

"Shut it!" Fredrico hissed. "I've had enough of your fucking bullshit!" Fredrico paused. "They'll be after me next!" He threw up his hands in frustration. His pacing became more aggressive. It looked like he was about ready to burrow himself into the ground. Suddenly, he stopped. Julio nearly had a heart attack then and there. "Unless… we're ready for them." Fredrico spun on his heel and marched to his desk. He picked up his phone, dialing without looking back at Julio. "Get me Torrez. We have a job."

* * *

Sherlock folded his hands over the table. "Is that everything?"

"Yes," Duffy took a long sip of coffee, breathing through his nose. Dolly had given up on gum and graciously took a cigarette from Sherlock. John glared at him, but nothing was exchanged. "After that, we went back to being regular cops. Okay?"

"Thank you, officers." Sherlock nodded at John, who closed a small notebook that he was scribbling in. "I'll pass on your good words to the brothers." Dolly and Duffy shared another look, but stood up and exited the room.

John broke the silence. "Great… more serial killers…"

"They aren't serial killers…"

"Oh, like when you said that about Moriarity? That bastard tried to blow me up!" John grumbled, crossing his arms. "I don't like this, Sherlock. It's going against all my beliefs and training. What if they kill… us?" John led off.

"They won't. They can't. We've done nothing wrong."

"I murdered that cabbie…"

"Self defense."

"Right. He was shooting directly at me…"

"Sarcasm is…"

"… the lowest form of wit, I know!"

The two stared at each other. Like it usually happened, both began to laugh.

"Look," Sherlock smiled. "I promise that it'll be alright."

John laughed. "Right and I should believe you… why?"

Sherlock straightened his coat as he stood. "Because." He disappeared down the hall, still chuckling softly.

* * *

Really filler… but that's alright. More action to come. Please R&R. Thanks!

Quick translation: May the Lord be with you.

SMH


	8. Chapter 8

I'm back again and the long awaited disaster is on its way. Do enjoy.

I don't own BDS or Sherlock.

The Great Sorrow

Murphy raised the gun to his eyes, focusing in his sights. Connor turned slightly on the wheel, knocking Murphy to one side.

"Watch it, ye eejit!" Murphy swore. He stuffed his pistol back into his holster, straightening his back against the seat. Connor's gloved hands tensed on the wheel. Murphy's face was scrunched up in pain. With every bend of the London streets, Connor regretted letting his brother got off the bloody couch. Murphy scowled as he met Connor's eye. "I'm fine, Conn."

Eventually, Connor brought the car to a stop, pulling into an ally a couple of blocks from the mark. He tugged a dark mask over his head, smoothing down his red hair. Murphy cracked his knuckles loudly, making Connor cringe slightly. The two exited the car, carefully shutting the doors.

The London air swirled as the wind whistled through the streets. Passersby didn't notice the two masked men hiding in the shadows. They ducked in and out, moving silently along the streets. Finally, they reached the flat that belonged to Fredrico Verganza. And they came for blood.

Connor tapped on the door, removing his mask. He let his hood cover his face as he knocked again. Murphy stood askew from him. Something crashed within the house and the door swung open.

"Hola?" A plump Spanish woman stood in the doorframe. Connor feigned hospitality.

"Estamos aquí para hablar con el Sr. Verganza" _We're here to talk with Mr. Verganza. _Murphy nodded in time, head bowed. The woman hesitated slightly, palm plastered to the door.

"Subir las escaleras a la izquierda." _Up the stairs to the left. _

"Gracias." The boys stepped inside, sidestepping the woman. Connor jabbed the stun gun between her ribs and shocked her on the lowest setting. The woman convulsed slightly, but passed out without a word uttered. Murphy nudged his brother, smiling slightly.

"Still got it, Conn."

"Shut it!"

Connor shoved his mask back over his eyes. The twins withdrew their weapons. Murphy coughed quietly off to the side, gaining a concerned look from Connor.

"Ye sure ye're alright, brudder?"

"Fuck ye…" Murphy socked him on the arm with the butt of his pistol. Connor batted him away, but didn't fight back. The two heard yelling from the stairs. They ran towards the noise, guns drawn. They kicked in the door, raising their guns, fingers poised on the triggers. Nothing. There was nobody in the room, save the two Irishmen. "Da fuck…?"

Connor saw it before he did. "Murph!"

Murphy collapsed to the ground, gun dropping from his hand. Connor fired, yelling in a rage. The man who had struck Murphy leapt out of the way, bullets just grazing his arm. Connor kept shooting, aiming for his head. The man yowled as Connor's bullets hit home. They ripped through the man's body like butter, and he finally shuddered and froze. Connor dropped his gun, dropping to his brother's side.

"Murphy! Come on, ye bastard! He didn' hitcha dat hard!" Connor shook him quickly. Murphy's head lolled back, but he didn't open his eyes. Connor took Murphy's head in his hands. He drew back a hand quickly, shocked as it came back red. "No…. no no no no!" Connor grabbed Murphy's arm, grunting as he hauled his brother over his shoulder. "Come on, Murph. Let's getcha home. Dr. Watson ken fix cha." Connor heard the crack before he felt the pain. Murphy tumbled off of him as Connor crumpled to his knees.

"Sweet dreams…" hissed a voice.

Connor fell beside his brother, but as his own blood mixed with Murphy's, Connor descended into blackness.

* * *

Sherlock pressed his fingers against his lips. John looked over his shoulder, scanning the screen. They had brought up a picture of Fredrico Verganza from the police records. Sherlock scrolled down through the information, clicking the names of his family members.

"Deceased. So that was their first hit in London?"

"Mhm."

"And they went out to get the son."

"Mhm."

"And you're worried, why?"

Sherlock slammed the top of his laptop down. "Because Fredrico Verganza just spent thirty thousand quid!"

"Bought a new car, so?" John sat opposite the detective. Sherlock threw up his hands. "No?"

"No." Sherlock jumped to his feet, pacing slightly. "Verganza has no need to buy a new car, for he bought one last week. The Yard has shown great skill in watching him, but they are unable to tell us what he bought yesterday."

John scrunched up his eyebrows. "Yeah, and?"

"Use your head, John."

John folded his arms behind his head. "Show off for me, genius." John ducked as a pillow flew toward him. Sherlock tossed his laptop off his lap. He stretched out on the couch, burying his head in the arm.

"He hired a contract killer."

"Mhm…" John nodded distractedly. "Wait… what?"

Sherlock looked up, hair tousled lazily. "I sent Lestrade over to Verganza's place…" A cell buzzed noisily from under the table. Sherlock stretched out his fingers, grabbing the phone and flipping it open. "Hello?" John jumped out of his seat as Sherlock's eyes widened. "We'll be down in ten."

"Sherlock, what happened?"

"They're gone," Sherlock monotoned. He raced out the door, leaving behind both his scarf and coat. John ran after him, slamming the door behind them.

* * *

Connor jerked awake, trying to bring his hands to his head. He felt resistance, but his wrists were wet. Connor's eyes cleared. He scanned the room, searching desperately for his brother. He looked down at his wrists, moaning as he saw the blood. His wrists were rubbed raw with tight rope.

"Murph…" his voice came out cracked, tired. Connor's throat ached, but he continued. "Murphy!" The shout was weak, but he heard another moan in reply. "Murph, is dat you?" Connor strained against the rope, trying to turn. He felt something warm against his back.

"C… Conn?" Murphy's voice was muffled, pained. It came from behind Connor, who was pulling harder on the rope. It ground into the already bloodied wounds. Connor grunted in frustration.

"Murph, ya alright?"

"I… I don't know," coughed Murphy. Connor leaned back, feeling Murphy's slick hair on his neck. Murphy's chest continued to rattle with coughs. "Conn, I can't see." This caught his attention.

"What do ya mean, ye can't see?" Connor looked around. While dim, he could still make out the room in front of him. Perhaps Murphy's blood had run down his face… Connor couldn't be sure. He needed to see. Needed to see that his brother was okay.

"What da fuck do ya think… I mean, Conn?" Murphy's voice rose a little in pitch. Connor felt him stiffen, on the verge of panicking. "I can't see anythin'! Me fuckin' eyes ain't workin'!" Murphy's head swung around, clocking the back of Connor's.

"Oi! Watch it!"

Suddenly, lights flickered on above them. Connor hissed, snapping his eyes closed. Murphy didn't have the same reaction. Connor began to think that his brother truly was blinded. A figure sauntered into the room, trading something between its hands. Connor recognized the object, gritting his teeth.

"Nice weapon…" the figure spoke softly. It was male, but very quiet. Connor struggled towards the man, but the man simply held up a hand. Connor strained to see under the thick hood the man was wearing, but ultimately failed. "I wouldn't do that, Connor MacManus."

"Where are we? Who da fuck are ye?" Connor spat.

"Conn, who are ya talkin' ta?" Murphy mumbled worriedly. Connor shushed him quickly, turning back to the man.

"Your brother could very well be suffering from Second Impact Syndrome. It's a fatal follow up to a concussion. If you don't cooperate, Murphy will die." The man lifted the hood from his face.

A cruel smile spread across his face. His short brown hair was slicked back, styled carefully. From underneath his hoodie, he wore an expensive looking suit. His eyes pierced through Connor, staring his down. Connor glared back, but without the same effect.

"So… what do you say?"

Lestrade spun around, yelping slightly as he ran into Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were wider than usual, void of all his prior boredom. Lestrade hissed crossly, reaching past the detective to get another file.

"What? You were wrong on the lead. They weren't there."

"You don't understand, Greg!" John appeared behind Sherlock, pulling the file from Lestrade's hands. Lestrade's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything else. He turned around and collapsed into his chair, exasperated.

"What don't I understand, John? Hm? He gave me the wrong lead!"

"No, I didn't," Sherlock snapped. He pressed his palms on the desk, still lumbering over the inspector. "They killed the father and were going after the son. Something happened to them, and I need to figure out exactly where they are." Lestrade stared up at the younger detective, folding his arms on the desk in front of him.

"And why do you care?"

Sherlock turned, nodding at John. John faltered, but closed the door. He scanned the room, then returned the nod. Lestrade's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline in confusion.

"We haven't been entirely honest…" began John. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really, John? We've been sheltering the Saints!" Sherlock spat. "There's no need to sugarcoat the facts." Lestrade's jaw dropped. Sherlock seated himself across from the dumbstruck man. Lestrade's hand instinctively shot towards the phone, but he stopped as his hand hovered over the cradle.

"Are you joshing me?"

"No."

Lestrade looked towards the ceiling, unable to meet the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. "Don't lie to me, Sherlock. These are criminals."

"That have been killing other criminals and have a vast knowledge of drug dealers and crime bosses!" insisted Sherlock. Without his coat, he seemed skinnier. Lestrade smacked a fist down on the table.

"Sherlock, I could arrest you right now for being an accomplice to murder! Murder, Sherlock!"

"But you won't. Not yet."

"And why not?"

"Because if you do that, you're going to find them dead."

Lestrade shot out of his seat. "Sherlock, what the _fuck_ is going on!"

John huffed. "Sherlock seems to think that they were kidnapped by a contract killer."

"I know they were," Sherlock murmured. "We need to find them."

Lestrade brought his mouth into a thin line. He paced between the desk and the back wall, only turning slightly to watch Sherlock. Sherlock's face was blank, unreadable, but Lestrade could feel the urgency of the room. John kept glancing out the window of Lestrade's office, afraid of being caught. Finally, Lestrade paused. He pressed the intercom button on his phone.

"Anderson, get your team down to Fredrico Verganza's house. It's now a crime scene."

* * *

Uh oh… Who is this mysterious person? Internet cookies for those who can guess it… (Get it? Hehe… I've been reading too many Eddsworld comics.) Bet you can.

Please R&R, me darlin's.

SMH


	9. Chapter 9

I left you guys with little hope for our boys… I'll continue.

I don't own Boondock Saints or Sherlock.

Blinded

Sherlock paced furiously over Verganza's front carpet. The maid had long since awakened and was chattering quickly in broken English about what had happened. Lestrade wrote everything down, nodding to Sherlock before returning to Anderson. The forensic expert was bent over and was rubbing a swab over the carpet. The stain, he was convinced, was blood.

"Do you have any idea what happened to the two men?" Lestrade tried again with the Hispanic maid. The woman shook her head viciously. Sherlock paused, finger stuck in his mouth. He bent over, staring intently at the woman's back. "Sherlock, now is not the time for…"

"Stun gun," Sherlock pointed at a slight scorch mark on her mid-back. The woman nodded this time, faster.

"Si, si! Stun gun! Do not remember!" the maid touched the mark, wincing silently.

Sherlock shot a cocky grin towards Lestrade before returning to his hole in the floor. He brought his head to his chest, processing the room. The maid had let them in without a fight only to get a stun gun to the back. They had to have gone upstairs, for there were bloodstains leading down the stairs. Sherlock bounced his way up the stairs, pulling back slightly as he hit the top room. Ammonia. Flipping great. They had samples for the boys, but anything from the captor was perfectly useless. Sherlock slid into the room, Lestrade at his side.

"What happened?"

There was a crash downstairs, followed by the pleas of one Dr. Watson. Scampering up the stair, more slamming.

"You can't be up there!" insisted John. Sherlock's eyes widened as a woman with sharp green eyes pushed past the disgruntled doctor. She smacked the wall, eyes narrowing at the consulting detective.

"I can be here if I want ta, _sir_. You can't do anything ta stop me," she yelled. "Where the fuck are they?"

"What the hell are you…?" Lestrade began, but the woman snapped her head to glare at him.

"Shut it, Inspector. Sherlock, they told me. Where the fuck are they?" There was sympathy in the woman's eyes. She truly cared about the boys.

"We don't know…" whispered John. Sherlock held up a hand.

"Miss Bloom, I assure you, we'll find them."

Eunice froze. "How… how did you…?"

Sherlock approached the ex-agent, leaning into her face. Once he was mere inches away, he whispered, "Connor told me." Lestrade wasn't lucky enough to hear this. He immediately began to stammer.

"How _did_ you know?"

Eunice laughed, patting the detective on the cheek. Sherlock drew back. "We're working on the possible captors. Did they know anyone personally in London?"

"No."

"Any family beyond their father?"

"Mother, but she's in Ireland. They called her a couple of weeks ago."

"Any grudges beyond…?"

"Beyond the fact that they are serial killers. Wanted serial killers? No. They're good boys."

Sherlock nodded, scratching the side of his face. Anderson stumbled up the stairs. "I have the blood samples!"

"Destroy them," Lestrade sighed.

"Maybe we could… wait, what?"

"Destroy the samples."

"Inspector…"

"Anderson, do not test me right now." Lestrade nodded to John who pried the samples from the disgruntled forensic expert. Anderson shook his head in disbelief.

"Sir? What's the point of this?" He caught Sherlock smirking at him. "It's his fault, isn't it? It's the freak again, isn't it?"

"He's not a freak, honey. He's a genius," Eunice grinned, leaning back on the wall with her leg drawn up her side. She looked quite beautiful, catching Anderson off guard yet again. "Now why don't you move along and give the big kids some time to work?" She winked at him, and Anderson disappeared downstairs without another word. "And that's how you get them off your back, John." Eunice turned to leave, tossing her head back. "Keep me in touch, Mr. Holmes." The worry was back.

"I will," Sherlock smiled softly. "We'll notify you the minute we know something."

Eunice left with a flick of her hips. Sherlock turned back to the crime scene. Bloodstains were abundant over the carpet. He bent down to sniff one, head slightly reeling with the chemicals. John matched his stance, meeting his eye.

"You have never treated anyone like that, Sherlock. What makes her special?"

"She knows the boys. She cares about the boys. And we're getting them out of there." There was a dark glint in his eyes. Sherlock was up to something. John just didn't know what.

* * *

The man had Connor's chin in his hand. He was tilting the Irishman's face, scaling him with the focus of a painter. Connor began to feel exceedingly uncomfortable. Murphy shifted behind him, nervous, but swaying slightly. The man let him go, allowing Connor's head to fall forward. Exhaustion grated on his nerves, but he was determined to stay focused. He needed to get Murphy out of there and quickly.

"I like you, Connor. Strong jaw, intense eyes… all very nice," the man spoke. His voice was like a viper. It snuck into Connor's ears silently, but bit back with deadly venom. Every word stung. To be honest, the longer he was awake, the more hung over he felt. "I might have to keep you when all is said and done."

"What do ya want from us?" Connor mumbled, refusing to lift his head from his chest. Murphy whispered something back, but Connor nudged him with his shoulder. The man was in no state to speak. Connor's heart stung as he felt the tremors from his brother. The basement wasn't exactly warm. "We've got money, we've got information…

"I don't need money, Connor. I'm on a job, honey," the man laughed. Connor bristled, hands curling into fists. "I was hired by your mark."

"Verganza?" Murphy asked weakly.

"Shut it, Murph!" Connor hissed.

"No, no, no… go ahead, Murphy. What have you to say in your condition?" The man crossed behind Connor, out of his sight. Connor tried his best to contort around and find him again, but his wrists only rubbed against the harsh rope.

"Leave 'im alone!" Connor pleaded. Murphy gasped slightly, making Connor nearly jump out of the chair. "I said, leave 'im de fuck alone!" The man reappeared, flicking a used syringe. Murphy felt unusually cold at his back. "What did ya do ta 'im, you mudder fucker?" His accent was thick and menacing.

"I've given him a small sedative for your cooperation. You should be thanking me…" Connor turned his head away in disgust. The man knelt before him, trying to catch his gaze. "Aw, come on, Connor darling. The least you could do is look at me."

"Fuck you."

The man continued to chuckle. Connor placed a well-aimed kick at the man's side. The man fell backwards, cursing. Connor brought his knees up to his chest. His eyes narrowed into slits as he watched the man struggle to his feet.

"Should have known that was going to happen," he coughed.

"Should 'ave roped me feet, ye asshole," growled Connor.

The man produced a remote from his pocket. He pressed a button, and Connor instantly regretted his retort. Electricity coursed through his veins, sending his muscles into spasms. Connor yelped in pain. But more pain clouded his brain when he heard another scream.

"Leave 'im alone!" Connor screamed. The man pressed the remote again. The electricity stopped, but Connor twitched involuntarily. Murphy's heavily breathing was getting shallower and shallower.

"What do you say?"

"Fuck off…"

"Connor, I don't have the patience for this…" the man mocked in a sing-song voice. The Irishman wanted nothing more than to send this man to Hell. The man rose the remote again, but Connor shook his head.

"Please. Please leave 'im alone. Hurt me instead…" Connor's voice was cracking under the strain. The man grinned, replacing the remote into his jacket. Connor's unnaturally red hair hung down over his eyes in defeat. "He doesn't deserve dis."

"That's what I thought. I'll be back." The man straightened his suit and left the twins still writhing in pain. The door slammed shut, and Connor looked up.

"I'm gonna kill 'im, Murph," Connor promised.

"Conn?"

"Aye?"

"I don't feel alrigh'."

Connor tilted his head back onto his brother's shoulder. "I'm here, Murphy. We'll get outta dis. I swear ta God."

"Uh huh…" Murphy leaned into his brother. Connor closed his eyes, moaning slightly. "Do ya tink Eunice gotta hold o' Sherlock?"

"O' course, she did," Connor reassured him. He then did what he did best. He began to pray. Connor begged the Lord for freedom, for Murphy's safety, for the damnation of Verganza. And for the first time in an extremely long time, Connor felt like no one was listening.

_Connor, there will be a time in the near future where great sorrow will drive you to stray from the Lord's path. You mustn't let that stop you. You must continue. It is the only way._

* * *

Uh oh. Please R&R. Reviews are what make me want to write. Make me feel appreciated. Pretty please?

SMH


	10. Chapter 10

I'm sorry I torture my boys… sometimes they need it.

I don't own BDS or Sherlock.

Damning Evidence

Sherlock sorted through the papers, flipping article after article. He grunted in frustration, tossing a 'dead' file at John. John caught it easily, disposing of it in the proper bin. He was searching through a map in order to find low-traffic areas away from the heart of the city. If anything, they would be kept there.

"I've got a couple key spots…"

"Are they close to water?"

"Erm… no. Should they be?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He skimmed another article. He needed to find all the hot-spots for kidnappers to bring their victims. John circled some areas of the map, only to be shot down by Sherlock. He knew London like the back of his hand. Every street, every alley… the city was, in a sense, his. Lestrade had sent several officers out to hunt for the MacManus brothers, giving both Irishmen aliases. They didn't argue. Sherlock's phone rang, and he scooped it up eagerly.

"What have you got?" He asked quickly.

"_Nothing. Absolutely nothing."_

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing? Not even a ransom note?"

"_Nope, but I'll keep you in touch._"

Sherlock hung up the phone. He tore into the articles again. John sat in silence for a moment, watching his friend. Sherlock was frantic, obsessed. John didn't like being kept in the dark, but it was what was going to happen. Sherlock wouldn't admit his feelings, kept himself detached. Maybe Mycroft could spread some light on this whole ordeal.

The doorbell rang.

"John, would you mind?"

Sherlock motioned to the door with his head. John picked himself up and went to the door. As he opened it, a cold fear slid up his back. It was a small, brown package tied together with some string. John bent down to retrieve it, and then froze. Memories of Moriarty flashed through his head. Bombs, mostly. "Sherlock…"

"What?"

"We've got a package."

Sherlock was suddenly at his side. John startled, bringing a hand up to protect his face. "Gah! Do _not_ do that!" Sherlock waved him off. He knelt down, placing a hand on either side of the package. With the concentration of a chess player, he carefully ripped off the side of the paper and slid his hand inside. John watched, muscles tensed to run. Sherlock produced a DVD case from the package and a picture. He handed John the case, and carefully, he unfolded the picture. John looked over his shoulder, nearly dropping the case.

"Oh my God…"

It was Connor and Murphy. They were tied back to back. Both brothers' heads were bowed. Their wrists were bloody and restrained with thick rope. Murphy had a very nasty bruise on his forehead, only seen in profile, but still very grisly. Connor looked unhurt, despite his hands being drawn up in fists. There was a note on the back of the picture.

_Like my new toys? –M_

"Fuck, is that…?" John began, voice shaky.

"Yes," croaked Sherlock. A strange look crossed his face. One that looked both angry and sad. One that John hoped he never have to see again. "It's him."

"He'll kill them!"

"Not yet," Sherlock prodded the DVD case cradled in John's arm. "He knows I'm playing."

"Sherlock, you have to be careful! There are…"

"Lives at risk? Yeah, I know."

John growled, running a hand through his hair. "I'll throw this in and call Lestrade. We'll watch this together. Maybe you can get something from it." John disappeared inside the house. Sherlock locked his hands around the rest of the package, sliding out one last item. It was a syringe. There was a note attached.

_Better find them quickly. Murphy will be needing this. –M _

Sherlock closed his hand around the syringe. John couldn't see this, but he needed to make sure that it was safe. He decided that he would take it down to the lab and have Molly help him with it. That was, as soon as they saw what Moriarty had done with the boys. He withdrew to his full height and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Connor swung his head around. The suited man, "Call me Jim", took the camera down from his eyes. He looked rather like a kicked puppy, face drawn into a frown.

"Come on, Connor, honey! Smile for the camera!" Jim brought the camera back up to his eye. "And… rolling!" Jim used his free hand to jerk Connor's head up by his chin. "Do you have anything to say to Sherlock?"

"Fuck ye!" Connor spat on Jim's shoes. With a growl, Jim slammed the back of his hand across Connor's face. The Irishman's head cracked to the side, and he let out a low moan. Already a bruise was starting to form on his cheek from the abuse. Connor coughed loudly. Murphy groaned behind him.

"Are you sure…?"

"Da fuck I am!" Connor growled. He nudged Murphy who shot awake. "Come on, Murph, stay wid me." They had been going through this for the last couple hours. Murphy would fall asleep, but Connor would force him awake. One thing he knew about concussions. You needed to keep the patient awake.

"Ní féidir liom ..." _I can't…_

"Tá tú. Maidir liom féin." _You have to. For me._

Jim growled. "Now, are you sure that there is nothing you want to say to Sherlock?"

Connor straightened, glaring at Jim. "John, glaoigh ar ár máthair. Murphy atá gortaithe! Is féidir liom a chloisteáil uisce ..." _John, call our mother. Murphy is hurt. I can hear water… _He was silenced quickly with a harsh blow to the side of his head. Connor looked up dangerously, teeth gritted. "Do ya want ta try dat again, Jim?" Jim smiled, bringing up the remote. Connor paled instantly. "Please… not again…" Jim pressed the button and laughed as the twins convulsed under the electric shock. He turned to the camera once more.

"Hia, honey. The boys and I are just having some fun. You have 24 hours until I follow through with the job. Can you find me in time? Bye, Sherlock!" He clicked off the camera, shoving it into his pocket. He released the remote. Connor's head was tilted to the side, fresh blood running down the side of his chair from yanking at his restraints. "I'll be back." Jim patted Connor on the cheek, almost lovingly.

"Fuck ye…"

"Watch it or I just might."

Connor paled, mouth latching shut. Jim laughed coldly and slammed the door shut behind him. Murphy growled. "I'll kill 'im if 'e touches ya, Conn."

"I'm gonna kill de fucker anyway."

"Dat's the spirit," Murphy laughed, coughing loudly. "Sherlock'll find us. Give 'im 45 and we'll be on our way 'ome. Ya think 'e'll call Ma?"

"'E doesn't speak Irish, Murph. Course 'e will."

Connor tried his best to comfort his brother, letting his head fall back against Murphy's. Murphy continued to cough loudly, spatting with frustration. "Conn?"

"Aye?"

"It's blood."

"Fuck."

* * *

Please R&R! Please please please!  
SMH


	11. Chapter 11

And I'm back… will our boys be okay?

I don't own BDS or Sherlock.

Poisoned River

Sherlock flipped off the video. He leaned back, fingers steepled and placed over his lips. His face was wrung with contemplation, muttering Gaelic under his breath. A firm hand was clenched over John's mouth. He shook slightly with horror. Sure, he had seen worse, but this was Moriarty. Lestrade watched with disgust, immediately averting his eyes as soon as the screen went black. They sat in semi-silence for a moment. Sherlock sighed heavily, jumping onto his feet. He began to pace back and forth on the carpet.

"See anything?" Lestrade asked. He picked up one of the files he had brought. He began to flip through them, scanning with little interest. John ran a hand through his hair. He shot a desperate look towards Sherlock.

"Can you translate what they were saying?" he queried. Sherlock nodded quickly, continuing to pace. "And…?"

"Connor mentioned you and his mother. We need to call her…"

"No. We don't need their mother to be a part of this!" John automatically snapped. "To put her through this!"

Lestrade joined Sherlock on his feet. "Listen, John, when we get them out of there, they will need familiar faces to adjust to their situation. We don't even know everything they've been put through. You don't know them well enough. John, you should know the dangers of trauma…"

John nodded, dismissing him. "I know, I know… I still don't think it's right." Turning back to Sherlock, he added, "Do we have a location?"

"Water," Sherlock croaked. He was looking out the window, across the street. A deep understanding tinged with concern echoed through his dark eyes. His face was stone, as it always was. "Lestrade, start the search for all warehouses located near the Thames."

"Sherlock, that's got to be at least…" Lestrade tried to protest.

"That's all I have," Sherlock snapped. "I'll text you if I dig up anything else. Good day, Inspector." With that, Sherlock disappeared up the stairs, off on some tangent. John rose to follow him, looking sheepishly back at Lestrade.

"I'm sorry, Greg. I'll talk with him. I'll even call you if he has any leads," John apologized. Lestrade shrugged.

"It makes no difference to me. Hopefully, with him being an arse, we can find them in time." Lestrade himself disappeared out into the hallway. John waited until he heard Mrs. Hudson start to fuss over him before he bounded up the stairs to see his flatmate. Sherlock was seated rather uncomfortably at the end of his bed, cradling what looked like a syringe. He moved it back and forth, toying with the light.

"Sherlock, what's that?"

"I forgot to mention, Murphy's hurt. Most likely poisoned," Sherlock monotoned.

"_What?_ And you didn't think that was important to share with us?" John growled, eyes widening. "Jesus… we have less time than we thought. Water… water…"

"I gave Lestrade a false lead," Sherlock added quietly. His matter-as-fact face was drawn up with concern. John had only seen him like this once. When he had had a bomb strapped to his chest. John picked up on that, sitting next to him on the bed.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock, as your doctor, as your _friend_, please," John spoke softly.

Sherlock sighed. "I may not have been forthcoming about why I recognized the MacManus brothers so quickly…"

* * *

Murphy was in Hell.

He couldn't see. There was blood pooling in his mouth. He was tied to a chair. He was probably dying from the inside out. The worse thing was that he couldn't see Connor. They had always relied on each other, for better or for worse. From birth, they were inseparable. Two parts of the same whole. Murphy was constantly looking towards Connor, for his twin always had his back. He laughed at the irony. Connor shook awake, cursing that he had fallen asleep.

"Fuck, didn't cha know I was sleepin', Murph?" Connor scolded him. Connor gently shifted in his chair. Hunger gnawed at both brothers' stomachs. It had only been two days since they were lifted, but they never ate before a job. "How ya feelin'?"

"Ye want de honest answer?" Murphy sighed.

"Mhm."

"I feel like I'm dyin', Conn," Murphy shrugged with defeat.

Connor stiffened behind him, hands digging back into the ropes. He could feel infection beginning, sending chills up and down his arm. Sweat rolled down his forehead, matting his no longer spiky red hair. The color was starting to drain out of it, revealing its blonde roots. Connor growled, "Don't ye fuckin' say dat, Murph. Yer not dyin'!" His voice was rough with pain.

Murphy sighed again. "I'm thinkin' bout wantin' to, Conn. I can't stop…"

"Murphy!" Connor shook his head, trying to turn. He needed to see his brother, needed to stop this. "Don't ye dare talk like dat!" His tongue grew heavy, sandpapered.

"Connor, I'm not gonna leave ya!" Murphy reassured him. Connor stopped grating at his hands. "But I need ta prepare ya. Heaven's gotta be a much nicer than place den dis basement, Conn." Murphy silently wished that he had his rosary. Something to fidget with other than the blasted rope.

"Shut it!" Connor ordered. "Yer stayin' here. Wit me. Dere's no better place den dat, Murphy. Not even Heaven!" Connor was starting to get hysterical. "Ye can't leave me! He can't take ye away from me!"

"Connor!"

"Murphy, please! Ye can't just…"

"_Connor!"_ Murphy yelled, falling into another coughing fit. Connor stopped, tears running shakily down his face. He listened to his brother hacking for a little longer, coughing a bit himself. "Ye can't do dis, Conn. 'T'ain't good fer ya."

Connor nodded sadly, relaxing his bunched muscles. It was then a certain man sauntered into the room. Jim bounced along in his dress shoes, beaming at the twins. In his hand, he held a gun. Connor straightened, anger replacing fear. Murphy felt this, automatically reading himself.

"Connor! D'ya miss me?"

"Fuck ye," Connor spat. Jim grinned giddily.

"They're getting close, you know. They only have twelve hours. Until then, I decided I would have a little more fun. But the problem is…" Jim smirked, walking around the chairs. He bent down over Murphy, breathing into his face. Murphy froze, unseeing eyes searching for the man. "I'm awfully rough with my toys. It seems that I broke one."

"Leave 'im alone!" Connor hissed.

"Don't you say anything else?!" Jim suddenly roared. He was at Connor's side, yanking back the red hair. Connor winced, but his face creased with disgust. He bared his teeth, judging the distance between Jim's hand and his mouth. "It's always the same, over and over again! 'Fuck ye' and 'Leave 'im alone!" Jim made fun off their accents, waving his other arm around. "Didn't your mother teach you how to speak?"

"Not ta creeps like ye," Connor smirked. Jim smiled back before swinging the gun at his head. Connor's whole head shook on impact, jarred from the blow. He let out a gasp. Murphy growled, defending his brother the best he could. Connor slowly turned his head back to look at Jim. Moriarty was pissed, hard eyes set in hatred.

"Want to try that one again?"

"Why not?"

Another blow to the head. Connor whined low in his throat.

"Conn, stop runnin' yer mouth, ye eejit!" Murphy hissed, but Connor continued.

"Ye want Sherlock ta find us? Why don't ya just kill us now?!" Connor yelled. Moriarty frowned, tilting his head. Connor froze, mouth drawn up in a snarl. He clenched his jaw, shaking from the fever. Murphy couldn't breathe. What had his brother broke upon them? Moriarty slowly walked around to the front of Connor, shifting the gun in his hand. His finger found the trigger. Connor stared up at him, daring him on. The thing that made Murphy fear for his brother even more was the silence in the room. Connor always prayed if a gun was pointing at his forehead. Always. The silence was unnerving.

"Death is a reward. Do you think you've suffered enough to earn it?" Moriarty spat. He pressed the gun to the inside of Connor's thigh, staring him down. "Do ya… punk?" With a laugh, Moriarty fired.

Murphy jerked when he heard the gunshot and started crying when Connor started screaming.

* * *

Geesh… I'm angsty… Moving on…

Please R&R. Thanks!

SMH


	12. Chapter 12

Hey guys! It's been awhile, but I wanted to return to the brothers. This is the chapter y'all have been waiting for…TAA DAA!

I don't own BDS or Sherlock.

Lost and Found Again

John began to pace, walking the length off the floor in contemplation. "You're saying that…"

"Yes, I knew the MacManus brothers before we officially met. It took me a few minutes. It has been years. Before University," Sherlock explained. He sat down in his armchair, tapping on the side of it impatiently. "I went to Ireland with my father for a weekend. As it turned out, all the hotels were completely occupied. We had nowhere to stay. A… nice woman took us in. Ms. Annabelle MacManus and her two boys, not much younger than myself. I'm surprised that they didn't eventually recognize me. Considering how long ago that was, I'm not too surprised, to think about it." That apparently was the end of the tale, for Sherlock was on his feet again, pacing the ground next to John. The doctor jumped out of the way.

"So where to next?"

Sherlock paused. "You aren't cross with me? You usually are after I…"

"Sherlock. Stop. Let's find the boys, and then I will yell at you."

Sherlock nodded, smirking slightly. "The water thing is far too cliché. There's one place that Moriarty would hide the boys. Right under our noses. We need to search Baker Street. Prep your revolver, John," Sherlock babbled. He whipped on his coat, deft hands tying closed his scarf.

"We're bringing them home."

* * *

He untied them when it hit the one hour mark.

Connor fell forward, shaking hands pressing to the bullet wound. He had lost so much blood, and with the infection setting in, he was about as healthy as his brother. He had passed out earlier from the initial shock, listening to his brother's screams. He curled in on himself, protecting himself from the world. Murphy was released next. He too was extremely weak. The poison caused his blood to thin and rise to the surface, racing down his arm as his heart pounded. With everything he had left, Murphy managed to drag himself to Connor's side. He still couldn't see, but he could hear the familiar hush of his brother's breathing. When his hands found skin, he almost burst into tears. Connor jerked under his touch, trying to move out of the way.

"Conn, it's me," he whispered, running a comforting hand over what he assumed was Connor's shoulder. Connor shook under his touch.

"M… Murphy…" Connor smiled, hugging his brother close to him.

"How sweet…" Moriarty chided above them, picking at his nails with disinterest. "I'll be back, lovelies." A door slammed shut, leaving the MacManus brothers alone. They waited, focusing on each other's breathing.

"Murph? Ye alright?" Connor's hands found Murphy's hair, smoothing it back. Murphy shook his head.

"M'fine, Conn. We need to try and get out of here," Murphy tried to stand up, but he slipped in blood. With a grunt, Connor caught him, crumpling underneath the weight. They lay in a pile, breath spent, groaning in pain. "Maybe not yet… Shit…"

"Watch yer fuckin' mouth," Connor teased, letting in a sharp intake of breath as he shifted.

"Fuck ye!" Murphy laughed quietly. They sounded defeated, the end of their rope. Murphy sobered in the darkness, tears running freely. "I'm sorry fer everythin', Conn."

"Me too, Murphy," Connor moaned.

Murphy reached out, tangling a hand in his brother's. "One more time?"

Connor nodded, squeezing his brother's hand.

"_And shepherds we shall be…_"

* * *

Sherlock bounced on his heels as Mrs. Hudson dug through her keys. She had to have keys to the basement. Each click of key against key made his more anxious. John was knocking on doors around the neighborhood, promising that he would text Sherlock if he uncovered anything. They had one hour. Moriarty kept his promises. His phone buzzed with a call. Lightning fast, Sherlock answered.

"_What the hell are you doing?!_"

"Lestrade, I'm busy," Sherlock sighed. His foot began to tap with the energy.

"_You gave me a false lead?! Where are you?_"

"Working."

"_Don't pull that…_" Sherlock hung up the phone, sticking it in his pocket.

"Ah! Here it is!" Mrs. Hudson smiled with triumph. She tried the key in the lock, jiggling it back and forth. The door groaned under the pressure. Sherlock pushed past her impatiently, shouldering open the door. It clicked open to the underused basement. "Sherlock, are they…?"

"No," Sherlock sighed. He shut the door with a bang. "Where are they? Come on, brain… Work!" Sherlock paced, long coat billowing behind him. He steepled his fingers, sticking them under his chin. "Not here. Not on Baker Street…" Sherlock stopped moving. "Oh. Oh, you're good…"

Mrs. Hudson shot him a concerned look. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock flipped open his phone. He dialed at super-speed, bringing it to his ear.

"John, I know where they are."

* * *

Murphy cradled Connor's head in his lap. His breathing had shallowed further, worrying Murphy to no end. The ground was soaked with their combined blood. Connor had lost too much blood. Murphy knew that they were both on their last leg. Suddenly, the door opened, shedding the room in a blinding light. Murphy flinched. He flinched! He opened his eyes, assaulted by the flash of white. He could see! But before he could wake Connor, a hand was pulling his head back sharply. He let out a mewl of pain.

"Thirty minutes, Murphy," Jim's voice filtered through the haze. "You think you're going to die? How do you want to die?" Murphy didn't answer. "You're starting to see, aren't you?" Murphy's eyelids were scraped open, letting in more of the painful light. Murphy grunted. "The body doesn't lie. In thirty minutes, you'll be able to see." Suddenly, coughs wracked through Murphy's thin body. He spat out sticky warmth. "If you aren't dead…"

"Leave… 'im… alone!" With one last act of defiance, Connor delivered a weakened kick to the back of Moriarty's legs. The man's knees buckled, lurching him forward into Murphy. Murphy's nails found the man's hair, yanking him down under him. Even without perfect sight, Murphy managed to deal a punch somewhere in the vicinity of Jim's face. He laughed in triumph as he struck again and again. That was until the poison kicked in again. Murphy's entire body froze, seizing up. A cough pushed his way through his throat. It continued, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He fell off of Jim, rolling to his side. He couldn't stop. He began to shake with the effort.

"You really shouldn't have done that…" Jim growled. A cold barrel of a gun was on Murphy's forehead as he hacked and shook.

"_Forgive me for… I have sinned…_" Murphy recited quietly, bowing his head into the gun.

"NO!"

* * *

Sherlock yanked open the door. The maid leapt back in surprise.

"Señor, usted no puede estar aquí!" she insisted. _Sir, you can't be here_.

"I very well can be," Sherlock snapped. His eyes scanned the room. A man with slicked black hair was yelling at him in Spanish about warrants. With John at his heels, Sherlock ran up to him. "Where are they, Verganza?"

"I don't understand what you're talking about!" Verganza spat in roughly accented English.

"Don't play that game," Sherlock growled. "You've been in London for years. You have a better accent than that. Where are the MacManus brothers? I know they're here. I know you hired Jim Moriarty to hold them captive and kill them. I know that you didn't expect him to keep them alive for this long. And I know that they were sent to kill you." John separated from Sherlock, nosing around the room for any secret passages. Sherlock leaned in. "Where are they?"

Verganza smiled. "You'll never find them."

John huffed in frustration. There was nothing here. That was until he heard an anguished scream resonating from beneath a rug. He dropped to the ground, hands feeling at the edges of the rug. He lifted it away. A door in the ground was cracked open. "Sherlock! I found it!"

Sherlock grinned cockily at Verganza. The Spaniard reached into his pocket, pulling out a gun. Faster, Sherlock slammed the palm of his hand into Verganza's solar plexus, knocking the gun free. His coat billowed as they grappled. Finally, Sherlock caught Verganza in a head hold. With John's help, he tied Verganza to the staircase with curtains. Verganza growled and pulled at his restraints. He looked towards his maid, but she simply shook her head, picked up her purse, and left. Sherlock nodded in finality. He kicked open the door, lifting Verganza's gun.

"Are they really here?"

"They must be."

* * *

Connor lashed out at the figure bent over his brother. Pain shot through his leg, crippling him. He screamed, nails digging into Moriarty's ankles. The gun went off.

* * *

John nearly tripped on the stairs heading down to the basement. Sherlock flew down them, gun raised in his line of sight. If anything moved, he would shoot. They arrived to a half-opened door just as a gun was shot. Sherlock kicked open the door, gun readied. A figure raced to the other side of the room. Sherlock began to shoot as John turned on the lights. The figure ran into a separate door, latching it just as Sherlock ran into it. He kicked at it, trying to unlock it in a mad frenzy.

"Sherlock!"

He spun around, nearly dropping his gun. Murphy and Connor lay on the ground, breath caught in their throats. Murphy was shaking viciously, blood dripping from his mouth. Tears ran shamelessly down his face. He was unharmed beyond abrasions on his wrists and the poison. Sherlock retrieved the antidote from his pocket, jamming the syringe into Murphy's thigh. Murphy convulsed, yowling in pain.

"We're here, Murphy. We're going to get you home," John spoke quietly.

"C… Conn…" Murphy stuttered. "D… dead…?"

John was already bent over the taller brother. Connor had suffered multiple abrasions and beatings over his entire body. Bruises were scattered all over his face. There was a large bloody bullet hole in his thigh. And he wasn't breathing.

"Sherlock, we need an ambulance now!" John hissed. He ripped open Connor's soiled t-shirt, pumping his arms. The CPR seemed fruitless. John placed his mouth over Connor's, breathing air into him. "I can't do this indefinitely!"

"They're on their way. Five minutes," Sherlock shouted. He bent over Murphy. "It'll all be… okay." Murphy shook his head before falling unconscious.

* * *

They found them! Please R&R.

SMH


	13. Chapter 13

And I'm back! I wanted to wrap up the story! Yes… it's almost done… depression…

I don't own BDS and Sherlock

Recovery

_Beep._

_ "Connor, can you hear me?"_

_ Beep._

_ "Connor?"_

_ Beep._

Connor MacManus cracked open an eye, moaning. Everything was a bright white. It hurt like a hangover that was coupled with a car crash. His whole body ached. There was a burning sensation in his leg. Vaguely, he remembered the events of the last couple days. It had flown by so quickly. He remembered the basement, the screaming…

"Murph?" he croaked.

"Connor?" That wasn't Murphy. Something soft moved against his hand. Connor tilted his head to the side. A warm woman with short brown hair greeted him. Eunice. "Y'all right, honey?" She looked scared out of her mind, but relieved. "We thought you were gonna die."

"I t'ought I was too," Connor admitted. "Water?"

Eunice lifted up a straw to his lips. He sucked down the liquid, cooling his tired throat. Connor nodded as she took it away. He felt weight on his chest as he moved. Looking down at himself, he noticed his rosary hanging around his neck. Where it should be. Moriarty had taken them from the brothers before…

"Where's Murph?" Connor asked.

Eunice tilted her head towards the other side of the bed. Connor tilted the other way, curious. Murphy was wrapped in a tight quilt on a hospital chair, snoring. An IV was attached to his arm. His eyes were dark with sleep deprivation. He looked extremely uncomfortable, but he was asleep, alive, and alright. And that was all Connor needed to know before he too drifted.

* * *

The nightmares started that night.

"Murphy…" Connor moaned. Murphy's eyes snapped open, looking up from his chair nest. Connor's head was thrashing back and forth, trying to shake off the demons. He scratched at his leads. Murphy was on his feet in a moment. He wheeled his IV to Connor's side. He knew he shouldn't touch his brother, but the terror of the nightmare was clawing at him as well. Connor growled low in his throat.

"Conn, wake up."

"No… _fuck!_" Connor groaned. His hands scratched harder at the tubes and wiring. In a surge of anger, Connor ripped at his throat. Murphy caught his wrist in a panic, but the rosary was ripped from his neck, scattering across the floor. Beads flew into all crevices, the cross resting inches from the door. Murphy shook Connor to wake him.

"Connor!"

Connor's eyes shot open, as he pulled the leads from his arms. He yowled in pain. Murphy was on top of him in a second, forcing him down, to stay calm. His own IV was ripped out in the process. Alarms blared. Nurses began to run in, trying to apprehend the boys. Murphy shook his head.

"Don't ye fuckin' touch 'im!" he ordered. The nurses backed away.

Connor finally came to, eyes clearing from the nightmarish haze. His hand flew to his throat, empty. "Murph?" Tears began to run down his face. He shook underneath his brother. "Tá brón orm, Murph. An raibh mé ... raibh mé Gortaítear tú?" _I'm sorry, Murph. Did I… did I hurt you?_

"No, Conn, Tá mé go maith," Murphy laughed humorlessly. "An bhfuil tú ceart go leor?" _No, Conn, I'm fine. Are you alright?_

"Uimh Tá mé caillte creideamh, Murph. Is gá dom ar ais. An aingeal dúirt ba mhaith liom a chailleadh chreidimh…" _No. I've lost faith, Murph. I need it back. The angel said I would lose faith… _Connor drifted back off to sleep before Murphy could question him further. He hopped off of his brother. He needed to gather the beads.

Either Connor couldn't remember what had occurred or he was hiding it.

* * *

Sherlock and John visited the third day in the hospital.

Connor was attempting to walk, leaning heavily on his brother. Murphy had recovered faster, nutrients restored and poison purged. His mind had healed, leaving no permanent brain damage. He got lucky. Murphy couldn't stop laughing as Connor's legs shook beneath him.

"I told ya, ye aren't ready, Conn!" Murphy laughed, stumbling from his brother's weight.

"Fuck ye, I know what I can 'andle! Asshole…" Connor cursed. He gingerly placed weight on his leg, cringing. "If ye'd be more helpful!" At that point, the door opened, startling the brothers. John immediately ran to Murphy's side, helping boost Connor up.

"What are you doing? You were shot four days ago. You can't be moving around this much!" John scolded.

"Fuck ye too, doc," Connor spat.

John rolled his eyes, hoisting him onto the chair against the room. Connor smiled in thanks, regretting his decision to move immensely. It has caused his wound to seep slightly, reddening the bandages. Sherlock leaned against the door, looking rather amused.

"We're happy to see you are alright," John voiced what was on both of their minds.

"It's a damn good t'ing dat Sherlock knew Jim or else we would 'ave died," Murphy agreed. Connor blanched at this. He became distracted with the edge of his hospital gown. The bruises over his face had turned a yellow color, almost through healing. It was a good thing that Moriarty hadn't beaten him further. Murphy was dressed in a loose grey shirt that he had flirted off one of the nurses and jeans stolen from Smecker. They were tight on him, but beyond that, he looked perfectly normal.

"You're welcome, Murphy. I am surprised that you didn't recognize me when we met however," Sherlock shrugged.

"What do ya mean?" Connor lifted an eyebrow.

"I came to Ireland when I was younger. Stayed with your mum," Sherlock explained. John nodded to clarify. It took the brother's a minute to put together the information. Murphy's eyes brightened first. With a swoop, he was hugging Sherlock.

"David! Yer dat kid? Ha!" Murphy laughed. Connor then got it.

"We kicked yer ass fer searchin' in our garden!" Connor chuckled. Sherlock looked entirely too uncomfortable.

"David?" John asked.

"I wanted to blend in. Sherlock isn't the most common name," Sherlock growled. Murphy punched him lightly in the arm, smiling brightly. "Thought you should know that. I would know you anywhere."

"You 'aven't changed much, Sherlock. Yer still skinny as a fuckin' rail," Connor pointed out.

"I'm glad you aren't red anymore," Sherlock shot back.

Connor touched his hair. Sure enough, the dye had rubbed out. "Shit. Murphy, we need ta leave." Connor tried to get up on his own, but he was pushed back down by the vigilant John. "We'll be arrested!"

"Not yet," said a familiar voice. Smecker and Eunice popped their heads into the room. Smecker pushed around Sherlock to sit on the hospital bed. Eunice kissed both brothers on the cheek. She nodded amiacably to Sherlock and John.

"What do ya mean?" Murphy tilted his head.

"We're fuckin' fugitives, Paul," Connor informed him.

"Yes, you are…" another voice joined the already filling room. Inspector Lestrade scanned over the boys, sighing to himself. "You're almost as bad as Sherlock. I should be taking you all in…" Lestrade ran a hand through his greying hair. "Ex-Agents Paul Smecker and Eunice Bloom…"

"That's 'Special Agent'," twanged Eunice sweetly.

"I should hand you over to the United States. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, I should arrest you for assisting murder," Lestrade counted quietly on his fingers. "Multiple times. And of course, Connor and Murphy MacManus. Charges of assault, battery, first and second degree murder…" Lestrade took out his badge almost sadly. "I should be arresting myself."

"And what keeps you?" Smecker snapped.

"Lady Justice," Lestrade smirked. "You guys are doing right by this, but I do have a feeling you should go home."

"Ta Ireland!?" Both brothers gasped. They looked at each other with excitement in their eyes. Their homeland ran through their veins, flowing as the nation thrived. To be back home again… "How?"

Lestrade moved out of the way as one last figure joined them. Murphy had to stop Connor from jumping up. It was a small, round woman with rough features and wide brown eyes. She grinned, the thin scent of alcohol permeating the room. Murphy and Connor nearly fell over in utter joy.

"Ma!" Ms. MacManus had to teeter over to her sons. She wrapped warm arms around both of them, smiling.

"Ye ever do dat again, I'll kill meself fer real, ye hear!?" Annabelle cried into her boys' shirts, pulling them closer. Connor laughed through her tears, placing kisses onto her forehead. Murphy cuddled into her in a way he hadn't for twenty years. Everyone shuffled out of the way, letting the mom have her time. They left the room respectfully.

"We'll talk about moving you home in a while," Smecker shot behind him before pulling the door closed.

Connor and Murphy separated from their mother. The plump woman grinned at them, immediately prodding Connor's bruises. He hissed in pain, shooting her a cocky sneer. For that, she tapped him lightly on the cheek. Murphy chuckled, but got a smack on the back of his head. He moaned.

"Stop bein' such a pussy, Murphy. Yer brodder got shot!"

Murphy shot a look at Connor. Connor shrugged, eyebrows moving. Annabelle watched this and both boys got smacked again.

"I know what're doin', assholes!" Annabelle hissed. "What do ya need ta tell me?"

Murphy gently lifted up his shirt, flashing his endless scars. The one on his arm, the bullet wound from so long ago, was almost healed beyond a star shaped scar. Connor did the same, ashamed. Annabelle scanned over them with wide eyes, but didn't say anything. Connor sheepishly pulled down his shirt, wishing that they had cigarettes. Murphy was having much of the same thought.

"Dose aren't bar fights, are dey, boys?" Annabelle was remarkably calm. "Ye started killin'."

"Aye, Ma," Connor and Murphy bowed their heads. Annabelle lifted their chins, pressing a small kiss to their noses. "Ye aren't…?

"Angry? 'Course I am! But I'm proud and takin' ye two fucks home," Annabelle laughed. She turned to Connor, suddenly concerned. "Why did ye call me, Conn? Dere are plenty of translators in London fer Irish."

Connor paled, scrubbing a bandaged hand over his face. "Ma, I t'ink… I t'ink I've lost…" He couldn't finish it. He looked at Murphy. His brother nodded. So he did remember.

"'E t'inks 'e's lost faith," Murphy explained.

"Murph, I tore off me rosary!"

"Don't mean fuckin' nothin'!"

"Murphy, I…"

"Boys!" Annabelle scolded. "Connor, tell Ma what's wrong."

Connor trembled slightly as he retold his visit from the angel. The warning of lost faith. Not to mention that his brother had been unable to think properly for four days. Ma MacManus listened carefully. She was fingering her own rosary that lay inbetween her breasts. Murphy's jaw dropped open as the tale progressed. He felt… depressed that his brother hadn't told him of this earlier. After he was done recounting the tale (save the bloody details), Annabelle gently removed her rosary.

"_O Jesus, author of our faith, humble and convert the enemies of Thy Church; grant true peace and concord to all __Christian__kings__and princes and to all believers; strengthen and preserve us in Thy holy service, so that we may live in Thee and die in Thee. O Jesus, author of our faith, let me live for Thee and die for Thee. Amen." _She recited over him. Connor bowed his head, squeezing closed his eyes. He let his mother's prayer wash over him as he recited the words with her. Annabelle replaced her rosary. "Where's yours, Conn?"

"I broke it," he admitted.

Murphy spoke up, pulling something out of his pocket. "Here."

Connor gently retrieved the item. His rosary. It was strung back together, cleanly and evenly. Murphy grinned smugly, looking down at his nails. Connor met his eyes briefly before stringing it over his neck. Ma smacked him again.

"Yer lucky I love ye two."

* * *

The car was prepped far before the boys were.

Eunice smoothed back Connor's re-dyed red hair, placing a kiss on his forehead. He smirked before handing her over to Murphy. He hugged her tightly.

"Y'all be good now. I don't want to have to come all the way to Ireland to beat your asses," she smiled sweetly. Connor and Murphy crossed themselves, chuckling quietly. "You have done well…" Eunice shrugged, strutting quickly away before the boys could see her tears.

"What d'je do now, ye fuck?" Murphy teased. Connor laughed, shifting over on his crutches. The bullet hole had closed up, but he was still pretty jacked up. Murphy was watching him like a hawk. They were inseparable.

"Don't fuck anything else up," Smecker frowned. One look at the twins had him breaking out a smile. "Seriously, be safe." He shook their hands. Connor caught him in an awkward one way hug. Smecker had to hug a crutch to make it work. Murphy crossed his arms, shaking his head.

"Safe's our middle name!" Murphy laughed. He made a point of this by prodding one of the later-healing bruises on Connor's face. Connor growled, trying to bite at Murphy. Smecker ran off to join Bloom.

Lestrade was next. He shook their hands, flashing his badge meaningfully. "You jump in our division, I will arrest you."

"T'anks, Greg," Connor blinked his eyes innocently. Murphy smacked him over the head. "Oi! Only Ma ken do t'at!" In response, Annabelle smacked him hard enough to jar his senses. Connor's eyes widened before both Connor and Murphy burst out laughing.

Sherlock and John followed. John patted the brothers on the shoulders.

"You ever need a patch-up, dial me up," John handed them a folded piece of paper. "It's been fun."

"Pleasure to see you again," Sherlock monotoned. Connor nodded before abandoning his crutches. The tall Irishman wrapped his arms around the detective, burying his nose in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock stumbled back, staggered by the gesture. "Connor?"

"T'ank you. Fer everythin'. Da help, savin' Murph, savin' _me_… T'ank you," Connor squeezed a little harder.

"You're welcome. Can't breathe, but you're welcome."

* * *

Annabelle shot a look to the backseat, folding her hands in her lap. Two lumps of black peacoat and dyed hair poked out from the backseat. Murphy was sprawled out over the seat, snoring loudly. Connor was far more contained, letting Murphy use him as a footrest. Murphy's mouth quirked up into a smile, one Annabelle knew well. Connor's brow scrunched whenever they hit a bump.

They would be home soon.

They could be a family again.

* * *

Alright! Last chapter… but… epilogue coming. Very angsty epilogue.

Please R&R. LOVES!

SMH


	14. Chapter 14

I don't own BDS or Sherlock.

EPILOGUE:

Years passed before the MacManus brothers returned to London.

Connor still walked with a minor limp. Murphy was constantly by his side. They had returned to their routine. Connor found himself again. They decided to revisit Sherlock and John while they were off work. Well, while Murphy was off work at the port. They walked down Baker Street, pea coats buttoned to ward of the nasty weather.

"Do ya t'ink dey'll be expecting us?" Connor asked. His accent had thickened from time back in Ireland.

"Should be," Murphy bit down on a nail, looking around the street. It was pretty quiet today. They fell back into silence. As they walked, Connor noticed a newspaper. He picked it up, refolding it. He casually glanced at the front page. His eyes widened.

"Murphy," he almost whispered. His mouth hung agape, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "Take a look at dis." He handed the paper over. Murphy gently took it, reading over the headline. _Consulting Detective Dead. _

"Ye t'ink it's…?"

Connor didn't answer. He met Murphy's eyes, communicating briefly. _Of course, it's him. _Murphy balled up the paper in his hands, shaking his head.

"It can't be 'im, Conn. Dere's other tecs like 'im!" Murphy insisted.

Connor shrugged. "We can't know yet. Let's pay dem a visit ta be sure, alright?" He placed a hand on Murphy's neck encouragingly, dread bubbling in the bottom of his stomach. He wanted it to be wrong. He wished that it was all a lie. But a Saint's intuition doesn't lie. Murphy leaned into his brother's touch before they jogged to the familiar address. The whole house was bathed in darkness, all the lights off in the clear afternoon. That was the first warning bell. Murphy knocked loudly on the door.

"Hold on," a soft voice came from inside. The door opened slowly. A very grey looking Mrs. Hudson appeared, face ashen. "Sean? Ian?"

"Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid dat we haven't been da most forthcomin'," Connor grinned. "Sherlock hasn't told ya?"

"Told me what?" her voice cracked unexpectedly. She noticed this, rubbing the back of her hand over her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Me name's Connor and dis is Murphy. T'ought ye should know," Connor continued. Murphy elbowed him in the ribs. "Ye alright, Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson sniffed, shaking her head. She seemed un-phased by their real names. Her hands began shaking. "I have something to tell you too."

Murphy flashed Connor a look of concern. Connor nodded, egging her on. "Please, what's wrong?"

"Sherlock, he's… he's gone," Mrs. Hudson began to cry quietly, hands balling up in her blouse. "He jumped off a roof! He… he was saying that he was a fraud and… and…" Unable to see her in pain, Connor and Murphy wrapped their arms around her. They held onto her as they wept, hiding their own shock. So they had been right. Connor hated when that happened. Murphy patted Mrs. Hudson on the back before separating. She rubbed the tears from her eyes. "My goodness, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be crying. It's John that needs the hugging."

"How's 'e managin'?" Murphy asked.

"He's depressed," Mrs. Hudson sniffed. "Would you like some tea? I could get it for you before he arrives. He's moving out…" She started a whole new bout of sobbing. Connor and Murphy guided her into 221b, deciding that they should make the tea for Mrs. Hudson.

They could wait.

John showed up at the house fifteen minutes later. He unlocked the door before stumbling inside. He was swaying slightly. Connor poked his head out of the kitchen, followed by Murphy. The hallway smelled like alcohol. The boys knew this state well. John limped to the stairs, falling flat on his face. The twins were at his side in a minute.

"Watch it, John. Don't hurt yerself," Murphy scolded.

"No pukin' on da carpet, ye ass," Connor laughed.

John's glazed eyes found the two brothers. "He's… dead. He tried to tell me he was a fraud. Sherlock… he wasn't a fraud. _Fuck…_" Connor and Murphy took either side of John, hoisting him up the stairs. John continued to slur. "I couldn't… couldn't help him!"

"Who…?" Connor began.

"Moriarty."

"Dat bastard's gonna pay!" Murphy growled.

"He's dead."

The brothers fell silent as they dragged John into his bed. They pulled back the covers of the neglected room, settling him in. John passed out before he could finish the story. He was going to have a wicked hangover in the morning. Connor patted him softly on the hand before turning to leave. Murphy had already disappeared into the flat. Connor found him looking at the mantel piece. Sherlock's skull was lovingly placed in the center, facing out. Murphy stared at it, chewing hard on a thumbnail.

"Murph?" Connor was at his side, arm around his shoulders. Murphy nodded absentmindedly.

"Do ya t'ink Moriarty killed 'im?" Murphy whispered. He didn't cry. His eyebrows furrowed, and he just looked confused. He combed a hand through his hair. "'E didn't stand a fuckin' chance, Conn. We survived t'anks ta Sherlock…"

Connor bristled. The events that occurred almost three years ago still made him shudder. Torture does that to a person. "Aye."

"Maybe if we 'ad been 'ere…" Murphy began, but Connor smacked him on the arm.

"We couldn't 'ave known, Murph! 'M not lettin' ye beat yerself up like dis," Connor snapped. "Sherlock is dead, aye, but it's not our fault. We weren't 'ere cause we weren't meant ta be 'ere. Christ, Murph!" Murphy raised an eyebrow, ghost of a smirk on his lips. He gently picked up the skull, examining it. "We'll remember 'im. Dat's all we can do."

"It's fuckin' unfair," Murphy cursed.

"So was Da's death. And Roc's. But dey 'ad ta 'appen, right?"

Murphy snorted. "Sure. Dey _'ad_ ta 'appen."

"Murphy, ye know what I mean, ye fucker," Connor growled. "Don't ye be mixin' me words!"

Murphy nodded slowly before replacing the skull. "Can we jus' go ta de hotel?"

"Aye, we can."

* * *

_London News – September 23, 2012_

_Consulting Detective Dead_

_ Sources have confirmed the death of one Sherlock Holmes yesterday morning when he allegedly jumped off of a St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Sherlock Holmes worked as a consulting detective to the Scotland Yard and was a personal friend of Inspector Greg Lestrade. Before his death, Holmes was arrested for kidnapping and assault on a police officer. He later escaped custody and was seen on the roof with several witnesses. Several other witnesses noticed another man on the roof, and later investigation proved that the man was Richard Brook, a children's show actor. He was found dead, bullet wound to the head. Sherlock Holmes was also wanted for fraud and contempt. More on page seven._

* * *

They visited the grave with John the next day.

Mrs. Hudson rested a caring hand on each of their shoulders before returning to her work. It was a quiet day, trees whispering with the wind. Connor and Murphy crossed themselves before the grave, kneeling identically before his stone. _Sherlock Holmes_. John shook, arms crossed. They weren't sure if he was cold or just grieving. Probably both. Connor started a prayer, hand tangling in his rosary. Murphy joined him, speaking in perfect tandem.

John sighed heavily, breath shaking. "You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero." Connor and Murphy turned their heads, unwillingly to interrupt him. They knew he wasn't talking to them. "Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there." Connor pulled his brother from the gravestone, eyes flashing. The message was clear. This was John's mourning. They had no right to be here. "I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop _this..." _

"John, we're goin' ta return," Connor whispered to the side.

"Alright," John nodded shakily. "Just… just give me another minute."

Connor had to drag Murphy from the cemetery, watching John stand by the grave. They somehow made it to the car, jumping into it with ease. Connor started the car as Murphy brought the safety belt across his chest. He was still staring out the window. Connor turned just as Murphy sucked in a gasp.

"Conn! Look!"

"What?"

A tall figure donning a long coat was staring at them. They knew those eyes. Murphy grinned, laughing to himself. He went to get out of the car, but Connor pulled him back.

"Da fuck, Conn?!"

"Look."

Sherlock was shaking his head, looking apprehensively behind him. Just as John started walking towards the car, Sherlock disappeared into the trees of the graveyard. Murphy's mouth dropped open, glaring at his brother. Connor's eyes were sad, but knowing. It took Murphy only a few seconds to understand his brother.

Sherlock wasn't meant to be found.

Like them, he needed time.

And they would give him that.

Connor and Murphy drove off with John in the back.

They didn't tell him.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Loves!

Please R&R.

SMH


End file.
